


An Ideal Grace

by afrocurl, nekosmuse



Series: The Sonnet Series [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Academia, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angsty Schmoop, Charles You Slut, Columbia University, Emotionally Crippled Erik Is Fun To Read, Erik is a poet, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multimedia Fic, New York, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Poetry, Professors, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Self Imposed UST, Sex Positive, Shaw is an asshole, Stalker Charles is endearing (not creepy), happy endings, no powers, past dubious consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-03
Updated: 2011-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 86,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrocurl/pseuds/afrocurl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nekosmuse/pseuds/nekosmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik Lehnsherr is a visiting professor at Columbia University, as well as an acclaimed and award winning poet.  Charles Xavier is a lead researcher with the Genetics Department who is well on his way to tenure.  But what happens when Charles has to cancel a class because half his students abandon him in favour of a mysterious new English Lit professor?  Naturally he ends up sitting in in the class, where Professor Lehnsherr mistakes him for a student.  It's really too bad Erik has such a strict policy against dating students.  It's also too bad Erik doesn't seem to know how to use Google.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> nekosmuse wrote the prose, afrocurl wrote the poetry. We rather inspired one another.
> 
> Based on the following prompt (excerpt):
> 
>  _Erik is a new/visiting professor of English lit at Columbia, who teaches courses like 18th Century Fiction/Victorian Poetry/Milton, etc. Erik is the dream prof -- knowledgeable and enthusiastic with a dry sense of humour. The only problem is, he's finding himself more and more attracted to one of his students, one Charles F. Xavier. Charles, however, isn't a student. Rather, he's the (very young, very brilliant) leading researcher in genetics that the university kind of adores and coos over._
> 
> Full prompt can be found [here](http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/5215.html?thread=5954655#t5954655).
> 
> This story comes with the following warning:
> 
> Suspend all disbelief, all ye who enter here. This is straight up rom-com. Anyone watching their sugar intake may want to hit their back button. Dude, Erik is a poet. Need I say more?
> 
> Finally, this story would not be possible were it not for several people. Thanks are owed to:
> 
> stlkrchck, for being my go-to person for all things New York. In addition to answering my many questions regarding both the city and Columbia, she also helped edit the New York details once the story was complete. This story wouldn't be half as accurate without her.
> 
> eira_cannaid, for the beautiful cover art she made me. I am both humbled an honoured.
> 
> palalife, for the beautiful art she drew (it appears in the final chapter) that made me cry uncontrollably for hours on end.
> 
> And last, but never least, afrocurl, whose poetry took this story in an entirely new direction, inspiring entire chapters with the sheer beauty of her words.
> 
> Opening poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

  


  
  
_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.  
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height  
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight  
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.  
I love thee to the level of every day’s  
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.  
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;  
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.  
I love with a passion put to use  
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.  
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose  
With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath,  
Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose,  
I shall but love thee better after death._   
  


~*~

 

Charles bumped into Moira in front of the library. She was weighed down by several tomes. Charles recognized two of them as texts on molecular genetics--he had his own copies sitting on his bookshelf back in his office. Charles fell into step at her side, taking the top two books from her pile and tucking them under his arm.

"Thank you," Moira said. She looked particularly frazzled today, hair pulled into a messy bun that was doing nothing to contain the wisps that still framed her face. Her sweater--loose knit wool against the slight hint of chill that hung in the air--was on inside-out, and she'd neglected to put on lipstick today.

Charles arched an eyebrow. "We're only two weeks into the semester, you know," he said. "You have to at least try to keep up appearances. Until midterms, anyway; then all bets are off."

He laughed even as he said it, but in place of the exasperated smile he was expecting, Moira shot him a glare. Charles didn't miss the slight hint of blush that stained her cheeks. Not frazzled, then; only newly returned from Sean Cassidy's office. Charles grinned.

"So that's why you're returning genetics books to Butler instead of Health Sciences. Here I was thinking you needed a change of scenery."

Not that the scenery on the main campus was any better than the medical center--unless one paid attention to architecture, which Charles rarely did. There wasn't anywhere in New York you couldn't appreciate a vibrant city poised between summer and autumn.

"They'll ship them back for me," Moira was saying about the books, a weak excuse if Charles had ever heard one. His smile widened.

"You two aren't fooling anyone, you know. I really don't see why you feel the need to hide. You're hardly the first faculty to stage a grand love affair."

He could count eight off the top of his head, though most of those were interdepartmental, whereas Moira was a full professor with the Department of Genetics and Development, and being groomed to take over the position of chair, and Sean was an associate professor in the Department of Music. He was also eight years Moira's junior.

"Not that it's any of your business, but we're not hiding," Moira said, effectively ending the conversation. Charles wouldn't press--he knew her well enough now to respect that she was an intensely private woman. This hadn't changed in all the time he had known her--not when she was his PhD advisor and not now that she was one of his closest friends.

Still, Charles couldn't help but affect a hurt expression. Moira saw it and rolled her eyes, clearly resigned.

"Fine, let me return these books and then we can grab a coffee," she said.

Charles wanted nothing more than to do exactly that. He wanted every juicy detail--and he couldn't be blamed for that, really, because Sean was ridiculously attractive, though straight, otherwise Moira might find herself sporting a little competition.

"Normally I'd love to, especially since I'm between classes and haven't had a cup since this morning, but I have a meeting with the Registrar in about twenty minutes," Charles said. They'd reached the entrance to Butler and Charles reached out to open the door, gesturing Moira inside. He followed on her heels.

"What on earth for?" Moira asked, her interest clearly piqued. She'd stopped walking and stood now, just inside the hall, her head tilted to the side. Charles shifted her books from beneath one arm to the other.

The lunch hour was just coming to a close, afternoon classes scheduled to start, the hall filling suddenly with students. It always amazed Charles how many he could find studying in the library between classes--an oddity considering he had always done the same. He pulled Moira into a corner, beneath the arched scrollwork that occasionally made him want to reconsider his stance on architecture, before answering her question.

"Rescheduling a class. It's my third year introduction to genetics course. I've lost over half my students, all within the first week," Charles said. He hated that he had to teach it, but he was still a year away from tenure and had to pay his dues. Moira must have heard his frustration, because she tutted--in the same way she used to whenever Charles was being particularly impatient during his PhD research.

"Patience Charles. You're the Genetics Department's golden boy. As soon as you get tenure they'll have you teaching all the graduate level courses you can handle." She smiled. "But seriously, how did _you_ lose students. You never lose students."

She was right, he didn't, which was part of what made this so utterly confusing. Charles knew he was a good teacher--certainly not the best, but he was relatively young, charming, and enthusiastic enough about the subject matter to capture his students' attention. Charles shrugged.

"The material's not that hard, and I know I'm not doing anything different, so I can only assume there's a scheduling conflict. At this point I'm not sure there's sufficient enrollment to keep the class running."

Moira offered a sympathetic smile. "I'm sure you'll get it sorted, but if you don't hurry, you're going to be late."

Charles realized then that she was right, his twenty minutes slipping away from him. Hastily, he handed over her books, Moira balancing them precariously on top of her pile. She waved off the obvious guilt in Charles' expression, sending him on his way.

He arrived at Kent Hall flushed and breathless from his sprint. Mrs. Summers--probably the only person at the school who actively disliked Charles--gave him a look of disapproval and gestured to a line of hard plastic chairs next to her window. Charles sat, and waited.

It wasn't long before Mrs. Summers appeared around the side door to retrieve him, though she seemed particularly annoyed by having to do so. In hindsight, it was entirely possible that Charles should have refrained from dating her son--never mind that they'd broken up four years ago and hadn't really spoken since.

Charles rose as gracefully as he could manage--given that he was still winded and Mrs. Summer's looked like she wanted to smack him upside the head--and followed her through the door and then down the hall and into Mr. Hendler's office. Mr. Hendler rose smoothly and extended Charles a hand.

"Professor Xavier," he said, nodding to a chair opposite his desk. Charles slid into the seat, crossed his legs and put on his most charming smile. Mrs. Summer's sniffed and then disappeared. Charles did his best to ignore her.

He had a speech prepared--knew everything he needed to say in order to convince Mr. Hendler to reschedule the class. He hated the idea of cancelling it, the introductory course to genetics often inspiring students into the field of study, and since Charles had somewhat of a vested interest in said field, by default he had a vested interest in keeping the course running. Granted, he would have preferred not to be stuck teaching it, but he could hardly expect to have his cake and eat it too. What he wasn't expecting was for Mr. Hendler to already know why Charles was here.

"You have eight students left in 3031. We're going to move it to the spring semester. Unfortunately this means you'll be adding another course next semester in order to balance your teaching load."

Charles mentally cursed. His teaching load next semester wasn't terrible, but his research schedule was hectic and he was hoping to get out a few publications. He wasn't going to stay the Genetics Department's golden boy--Moira's term for him, not his--if he didn't produce. He wondered if he could convince Hank to bump up their research on stem cells. If he was lucky, they might be able to get a paper out this semester instead of next.

"Is there anything else?" Mr. Hendler asked. Charles realized then that he'd been sitting, pondering how best to reorganize his schedule, and had completely missed the end of their conversation.

"No, my apologies, and thank you," Charles said, standing. He offered Mr. Hendler his hand, exchanging a brief handshake before turning back the way he had come. He didn't see Mrs. Summer on the way out.

All that rushing, for a meeting that had lasted at best five minutes; he likely could have taken Moira up on her offer for a coffee, Charles thought with a sigh.

He took his time getting to Fayerweather Hall, heading downstairs to Brownies because even without Moira he was getting that coffee-- it also gave him something to do for the next forty-five minutes. His last class of a day was a 2000 level bioethics course, and then he had grand plans of spending the better part of the night locked inside Hammer's labs. He wasn't expecting to see Moira again, but it was a pleasant surprise to find her on her way out of the building, Styrofoam cup in hand.

"Can you wait for me?" Charles asked, touching her shoulder. Moira glanced up from her iPhone, clearly surprised.

"That was fast," she commented, tucking her phone back into her pocket--her colour was still high, so Charles suspected she'd been texting Sean.

Charles offered a defeated shrug. "Rescheduled to next semester, I'm afraid, so if we can shift some of my research plans to this semester, I now have some free time."

Moira nodded, likely already making plans to use Charles' time. She was well suited to taking over for the chair--if the man currently holding the title ever decided to retire and so far he'd held out three years longer than expected.

Moira followed Charles back inside, waiting patiently while Charles ordered--a latte and a scone. When he was done, they took their coffees outside and sat on the steps of Low Library.

The semester had dawned grey and rainy, and had continued that way until today. For a while, Charles had suspected they might miss fall altogether--might skip straight into winter. The break in the weather was a nice change. Charles sat with his face tilted up to the sun, enjoying the vibrant buzz that came with the start of a new year. There were days, especially days like today, when Charles missed being an undergraduate. Not that his life was much different--he was still buried under mountains of work; still spent more nights bent over a keyboard or microscope than he did cultivating a social life.

"I feel like they get younger every year," Moira was saying, watching a milling group of students who occupied the steps opposite. "God, some of them are just babies."

Charles laughed. Moira had called him that once, shortly after he'd begun working under her. She called him that still, ruffling his hair on one memorable occasion, telling him to slow down, that he still had his whole life ahead of him.

"They don't look that young to me," Charles said. Moira snorted.

"That's only because you still don't look older than eighteen," she said, which was marginally better than the twelve she'd assigned to him upon their first meeting. Charles was tempted to bring up Sean Cassidy. He didn't.

The rest of their coffee break passed in familiar silence, Charles occasionally pointing out a person of interest--Bobby Drake, who was in this afternoon's bioethics class, and who Charles could already tell was going to be a star pupil, and Armando Munoz, who Charles was fairly certain would pursue an advanced degree in genetics. By the time Charles' forty-five minutes was up, his coffee was finished and his earlier disappointment vanished.

"Can I schedule some lab time tomorrow?" Charles asked as they stood to leave. Moira shook her head.

"I'll need a few days to check the roster. Why don't you sleep in? You did just lose your morning class."

Charles laughed at that, not needing to explain to Moira--who knew him well--his inability to sit idle for more than five minutes at a time--and that included leisurely mornings in bed. He was about to tell her not to worry about it when something drew his attention. Charles narrowed his gaze, recognizing then two former students from his rescheduled genetics course. He was moving towards them before he realized he hadn't bothered saying goodbye.

"Sorry, I have to..." he said over his shoulder, waving to Moira even as he broke into a jog. Moira merely shook her head. It was hardly the first time something had caught Charles' attention in the middle of a conversion.

His students--Marie and Kitty, he recalled--were heading in the opposite direction from where Charles needed to be, so Charles picked up the pace, breaking into a run to reach their side.

"Wait," he called. Kitty turned first, seeming startled to find him there.

"Professor Xavier," she said, clearly uncertain. Marie squared her shoulders, looking like she intended to back Kitty up in whatever confrontation they seemed to think Charles about to start. Perhaps they were feeling guilty for abandoning his class--and well they should.

"My apologies for startling you," Charles still said, using his best British accent, the one he had cultivated first during his childhood and later his time at Oxford. It tended to smooth more rumpled feathers than anything he might actually say. Marie and Kitty instantly relaxed.

"I simply wanted to let you know that 3031 is being rescheduled to next semester, so if you're still interested and it doesn't conflict with your schedules, I would love to have you back."

Kitty glanced at Marie, than back at Charles.

"Thank you for letting us know," she said, and Charles realized then that she probably thought he was singling her out specifically.

"Oh, no; I just meant, if you see any of your former classmates to please tell them the same." The last thing Charles wanted was a reputation for being an overly friendly professor.

Kitty still seemed a little perplexed, but she nodded her thanks, glancing over her shoulder, obviously as late to attend a class as Charles was to teach one. He motioned for them to continue on, then thought better of it and called, "Can I ask what the conflict was?"

It was Marie who turned to answer, Kitty making frantic shushing noises at her side.

"Professor Lehnsherr's romantic poetry course," she said. Kitty put a hand over her mouth and ducked her head, even as Marie blushed. Charles was fairly certain he wasn't imagining their sudden hurry. He let them leave.

"Why are biology students taking English lit courses? And who the hell is Professor Lehnsherr?" Charles said out loud, earning a few turned heads. This obviously required further investigation.

~*~

The end of the day couldn't come soon enough as far as Erik was concerned. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling more than a little overwhelmed.

"Where the hell did they all come from?" he asked.

His TA shrugged, but then, Janos rarely said much--it was one of the reasons Erik had brought Janos with him.

"Half of them aren't even on the class list, and I've received no requests to audit."

He was mostly talking to himself now, because expecting a conversation from Janos--who wrote so beautifully Erik was willing to forgive him a good many things--was so far outside the realm of possibilities that Erik would have had better luck training pigs to fly.

The thing was, it wasn't just the one class--though certainly yesterday's romantic poetry class was by far the worst. It was every class. Every class filled to capacity, with often twenty extra students he couldn't even begin to account for. It wasn't that he begrudged them wanting an education--or even appreciating the things he taught--that was good, better than good. And it wasn't that he wasn't used to having a few extra students in his classes--this had happened several times during his time at Heidelberg. But how on earth was he meant to keep track of all these people? Was he--and by he Erik meant Janos--expected to mark extra papers?

It was entirely possible this was simply how American universities worked. Perhaps every professor had the same problem. Perhaps it was a by-product of overpopulation. Certainly New York was far too populous a city.

Erik shook his head, and then turned his attention back to Janos.

"Can you prepare the handouts for tomorrow?" he asked.

Janos nodded, which was good enough for Erik. He pushed back from his desk, stood and slipped on his coat. He found his handy inside his left pocket and brought it out. It was his first Blackberry, so it took Erik several seconds of searching to figure out how to make a phone call--another few seconds to bring up Raven's number. She answered after three rings.

"Are you on your way home?" she asked, not bothering to verify who it was.

"Ja," Erik answered. He tended to forget himself--and their vow to speak only English--whenever he spoke with Raven. Familiar accents tended to do that, even if their accents were such a hodgepodge by this point that it was hard to pinpoint their country of origin. Still, the last seven years in Germany, not to mention his childhood, had gotten used to Erik speaking German.

"Erik," Raven chided.

"Sorry, do you need me to pick up anything?"

He'd asked the same question every night since their arrival, three months ago, and she always gave the same answer.

"No, but try to hurry, I'm cooking."

That didn't bode well for anyone, except perhaps the fire department, so Erik picked up his pace. If there was one thing his sister was incapable of doing, it was cooking. Fortunately she had other skills that more than made up for her lack of culinary talent. Without her Erik would likely be living out of a suitcase at the airport and spending upwards of $100 USD a day taxiing to and from work for the duration of his visiting professorship. He was remarkably lucky she had agreed to come with him--although he was still fairly certain she had only wanted a chance to live a year in New York City.

Still, he couldn't begrudge her that, especially since she had found and furnished their apartment, had taken care of all the legal mumble-jumble nonsense that always left Erik with a headache, and she regularly ensured their fridge was stocked and their clothes cleaned.

If she wasn't his sister, and Erik didn't prefer men, he probably would have married her.

When he finally arrived home--and New York's subways were still a maze of confusion for Erik, the process of getting from point A to point B a headache waiting to happen; they were nothing like the u-bahn, which Erik would forever hold as the model for efficient, effective underground transit--Raven was scrapping something black into the trash. A lingering scent of smoke still hung in air.

"Should I order a pizza?" Erik asked.

Raven sent him a menacing glare which he took as affirmation. He pulled out his Blackberry. He had the number for pizza delivery in his contacts list. This was a regular occurrence.

"You know, you could just wait," Erik said later, when they were sitting cross-legged around the coffee table, eating piping hot pizza--that Erik would forever consider America's finest cuisine. Unlike Raven, Erik could cook, and cook well. He made more than his share of the meals, and was more than happy to make them all if it meant keeping Raven out of the kitchen.

"I'm trying to broaden my skill set," Raven said, as if that explained everything. Erik supposed it did. He nodded. Unlike Raven, he wasn't one for heart-to-hearts, so he mostly just sat still and listened. It wasn't long before Raven elaborated. "My shrink thinks I'm too dependent on you, that I need to get out and find my own life."

This wasn't a new conversation. Raven's psychiatrists--and no matter where they went, she always had one--always thought she was too dependent on Erik. Erik could have told her that it wasn't that--this wasn't codependency, it was simply two people who had spent a lifetime looking out for one another continuing to do so. You couldn't grow up in the foster home they'd grown up in and not cling to one another for support, never mind the things they'd been through before finding each other.

"Which reminds me, your shrink called and left a message on my phone; you missed your last appointment."

This was another old conversation. Erik hated having a psychiatrist--hated that Raven thought he needed one. He'd only agreed in Heidelberg because she'd begged him, and when that hadn't worked she'd burst into tears, and how the hell was he supposed to say no to that? Two weeks in New York and she'd found him a replacement, scheduled the first appointment and everything--which was undoubtedly why they had her number--and he'd gone, if only to prevent a repeat performance. After three appointments, he had no particular interest in going back, but Raven had insisted it necessary, and Erik wasn't very good at denying her anything.

"I'll call them back, reschedule," Erik said, but only because it made Raven smile and nod, like she'd expected no less.

If only all his problems were so easily solved.


	2. Chapter 2

Charles' cancelled Genetics course was on Monday and Wednesday mornings, so on Wednesday, instead of sleeping in like Moira had suggested, he got up early and made his way to the main campus. He'd asked around the lab last night--which meant he'd spoken to Hank and one of Hank's research assistants--but no one knew who Professor Lehnsherr was.

He'd looked Lehnsherr up in the faculty directory, but the name hadn't come up--not surprising as the thing was perpetually out of date. It really left him with only one option: a visit to the English Department. It was almost ironic after his meeting with Mrs. Summers yesterday that Charles would be seeking out her son--and his ex--today. He wondered if she'd known; if she had some eerie ability to see the future--it would certainly explain why she had never liked him. Perhaps that was why she was so cold to him yesterday.

His breakup with Scott wasn't particularly messy, but Charles held no illusions that he hadn't hurt Scott, probably deeply at the time. Scott had wanted far, far more from the relationship than Charles. Looking back, Charles could see that it was mostly bad timing--Charles preparing to defend his thesis while Scott was focused entirely on finding them a condo to share. Charles hadn't wanted to share a condo--he still didn't own real estate--but at the time he'd been too busy with work to set Scott straight until it was too late.

Needless to say, the resulting explosion would have been momentous, had Charles not been so distracted by his research. The end result was that he lost a three year relationship almost without noticing, and Scott had gotten his heart broken.

Charles was definitely not looking forward to seeing the man.

But Scott was a department advisor, and that meant he would undoubtedly know everyone and anyone working within the department. Charles wasn't going to rest until he figured out who had stolen his students. More importantly, he wanted to know why.

It was another beautiful morning, as though nature was making up for the rough start to the school year. Charles had grabbed a coffee on his walk from his apartment in West Harlem, cutting across Morningside Park to reach the campus. He'd had the place since grad school, a tiny little studio with windows that rattled every time anything larger than a car passed beneath his window and radiators that worked according to whim. Scott had hated the place--one of the many reasons he'd pushed for buying a condo; that and his obsessive desire to live in the East Village--but Charles found it charming, and more importantly, his mother hated it enough never to visit.

His coffee was just getting to the right temperature to drink when he made it to Philosophy Hall, so Charles peeled off the lid and took a sip, enjoying the bitter burst of caffeine against his tongue. Scott's office was upstairs, on the third floor, so Charles made his way steadily up, only growing nervous when he actually stood outside the door.

It was closed, but Scott was an early bird--often up hours before Charles, and considering how early Charles tended to wake, that was quite the accomplishment. Charles transferred his coffee from his right to his left hand, and knocked.

There was a pause, Charles listening to rustling through the door, before Scott undoubtedly tore himself away from whatever he was working on and made it to across the room. He was obviously not expecting visitors--and was definitely not expecting Charles--because he blinked, dumbstruck when he found Charles standing outside his door.

"Oh, my God, Charles," he said after a minute or two of blinking. Charles offered a chagrined smile.

"Is this a bad time?" Charles asked, kicking himself then, because the last thing he wanted was for Scott to think he was here for... well, anything personal. Charles wasn't going down that road again.

"No, no, of course not, come in," Scott said, holding open the door and gesturing him inside. He left the door open when he crossed around to the other side of his desk--and Charles took that as a good sign--squeezing between the narrow space between his bookcase and his chair to sit down. The English Department's offices were notoriously small.

Charles sat on the spare chair--though there was barely enough room for it, Charles' knees pressed up against the backside of Scott's desk. He set his coffee down on the desk.

"I'm really sorry to bug you, but I was hoping you could do me a favour," Charles said, getting right to the point.

Sitting behind his desk, expression indifferent and yet friendly, Scott looked nothing but professional. It occurred to Charles then that it had been four years and the chances were Scott was completely over him. Charles wasn't sure why he had thought otherwise. God, he was such an arrogant, self-absorbed ass sometimes.

"Whatever I can do," Scott said.

Charles' awkwardness faded. "I had to cancel one of my classes because I lost over half my students to an English lit course. I was hoping you could..."

"Let me guess," Scott interrupted. "It was one of Erik Lehnsherr's classes."

Charles had no doubt he looked rather gobsmacked--certainly his mouth was hanging open. He sputtered for several moments before his mouth caught up with his brain.

"Is this a common occurrence?" Charles asked. Scott smirked.

"You'll understand after you meet him," Scott said, and there was no doubt in Charles' mind what Scott was talking about. Against his better judgement--and his wishes--Charles felt a stab of jealousy. He took a sip of his coffee to mask his reaction.

Scott had leaned across to his filing cabinet and was digging through it now, undoubtedly coming up with Professor Lehnsherr's timetable--and it still amazed Charles how removed from technology Scott was; the man still didn't have a computer in his office. While they were dating, Scott had refused to own a cell phone. Charles wasn't sure if he had one now.

"What class did you have to cancel?" Scott asked as he scanned the slip of paper he'd pulled from the cabinet.

"Monday and Wednesday, 8:15am," Charles said, "although one of my former students said it was a Romantic Poetry course."

"That would be 4402," Scott said. He slid across the sheet, index finger resting above the listing. Charles took particular note of the location.

But now of course he was doubly perplexed, because his third year biology students were dropping his class in favour of taking a 4000 level English course. It didn't make any sense. How had they even gotten in; certainly none of them would have the necessary prerequisites. Was this Lehnsherr--Erik, Scott had named him--really attractive enough that they would simply attend lectures without hope of earning credit? It was hardly the sort of behavior Charles expected from juniors.

Charles was still frowning over Scott's slip of paper when Scott cleared his throat. Charles glanced up, startled. He'd almost forgotten where he was.

"Sorry," he said, and then, because it was bugging him, asked, "Who is this guy anyway?"

Scott smiled--the kind of smile he usually reserved for inside jokes. Charles hadn't seen that smile in a very long time.

"Erik Lehnsherr is our visiting professor, on loan from Heidelberg."

Charles' eyes grew wide. What the hell was a German professor doing teaching English literature?

"Needless to say, he's creating quite a stir on campus. From the few conversations I've overheard, most people seem to think he is James Bond incarnate."

Charles frowned.

"He's an all right guy, if you're into the strong, silent type," Scott continued, and Charles knew Scott wasn't, just like Scott knew Charles was, "but I personally found him a little standoffish. Future advice, though; don't schedule a class at the same time as one of his."

"I'll try to keep that in mind," Charles said, ignoring the fact that he had relatively little choice in when his courses were scheduled. If he was lucky, he'd meet tenure at the end of the year and not have to worry about any of this next year. Certainly graduate students weren't this superficial.

Scott, who was obviously expecting Charles to leave now that he had the information he wanted, stood. He didn't look disappointed--he didn't look anything, really, just indifferent, and Charles suspected that probably should have hurt more than it did. Mostly it just reminded Charles of his shortcomings, so Charles stood as well, grabbed his now empty cup, and extended Scott a hand.

"Thank you, for the help," Charles said, enduring one of Scott's firm, professional handshakes.

"Anytime," Scott said. He squeezed out from behind his desk and walked Charles to the door--the whole two paces. Charles ditched his empty cup in the waste bin beside the door, offered Scott a friendly wave, and then headed on his way.

It was 8:30, and if Charles was lucky he could make it over to Hamilton Hall in time to catch the last half of Lehnsherr's lecture. He wanted to see this Lehnsherr in action, but more than that, after speaking to Scott, Charles' interest was piqued.

During the time he'd been inside Scott's office, the sky had grown overcast--a familiar sight this year. Clouds had rolled in from the north, threatening the kind of drizzle that would undoubtedly leave Charles cold and damp, even if he had thought to bring an umbrella. Fortunately Hamilton Hall wasn't a far walk. Charles didn't exactly take his time, but he didn't run--he'd done enough of that yesterday. He arrived with forty minutes remaining until the end of class.

Charles only taught two courses on the main campus, and while he was familiar with most of the grounds, he had few occasions to visit Hamilton. The building was old--like most of Columbia's buildings--Charles feeling momentarily transported in time as he searched the halls for Erik's lecture hall.

When he found it, he discovered it was more of a classroom than a hall, the room filled with writing chairs that had been bolted to the floor. Compared to the modernity of Hammer's classrooms, Lehnsherr's room looked like something out of a period film. Charles ducked in through the open door, attention immediately focusing on the figure standing at the room's podium.

The room was filled to capacity, at least a dozen students forced to stand. Only a few glanced in Charles' direction, most too enraptured by the man standing at the front of the room. Lehnsherr--and it could be no one else--was leaned against the podium, eyes downcast, staring at the open book in his hand. He was reading. There was something about his voice--hypnotic as it was--that immediately drew Charles' attention, though several minutes passed before Charles could make sense of the low rumble passing across Erik's lips.

 _And because I am happy and dance and sing,  
They think they have done me no injury,  
And are gone to praise God and his priest and king,  
Who make up a heaven of our misery._

Blake, Charles realized. Lehnsherr was reading Blake--and quite well, his hindbrain told him, thinking only of the soft caress of Erik's voice. He found himself flashing back to boarding school, to years of wanting only to study science while being forced to study the history of England's finest poets; of analysing and analysing until Charles had thought his head might explode.

He'd developed an appreciation later in life, but in the days of his impetuous youth, when he'd wanted only to be a doctor, he had begrudged his instructors for forcing him to learn things he hadn't thought relevant.

They seemed particularly relevant now.

And all right, perhaps Scott had a point. Erik Lehnsherr was gorgeous--in a stern, austere kind of way, which only served to make him that much more appealing to Charles. Charles could understand why so many of his students had abandoned him. Had Charles known, he might have dropped his class, too.

Lehnsherr had finished reading, and was now staring over the top of his podium--and oh the steady steel of his gaze--eyes sweeping across the room, seeming to touch on each student in passing. Charles shivered when they slid across him. Lehnsherr cleared his throat.

"On Monday, at the end of class, we read the accompanying poem in Songs of Innocence. Can anyone contrast the two?" he asked. Charles caught a hint of a German accent, though it was softened somewhat, Erik obviously having spent some of his life outside of Germany. Wherever it was, Charles approved.

No one answered Erik's question. Charles suspected that was probably because no one had paid attention to the question. It was rather hard to absorb the meaning of Lehnsherr's words when you were caught up only in their cadence. When the silence dragged on for longer than Charles would have allowed in his classroom, Charles, again flashing back to boarding school, began speaking.

Too late, he realized he probably should have raised his hand.

Too late, he realized it really wasn't his place.

"Blake himself tells us that the works in Songs of Innocence and the works in Songs of Experience represent the two opposing sides of humanity, written in an effort to show the full complexity of human existence," Charles said, instantly earning Lehnsherr's gaze. Oh, to have those eyes focused solely on him, Lehnsherr's full attention instantly addictive. Charles wanted nothing more than to capture that attention and hold it forever.

"Go on, Mr..." Lehnsherr said.

"Charles," Charles said, realizing then that all of his former students were staring at him in horror. Lehnsherr didn't seem to notice.

"Mr. Charles." Lehnsherr inclined his head even as it said it, like Charles' name was something to be cherished. Charles swallowed heavily and pressed on.

"The metamorphosis in Experience shows us the same child from Innocence, though through the eyes of an adult. So now, the exploitation that the child was ignorant of comes fully to light. The irony of the first poem is stripped away in Experience. In Innocence we see a child optimistic and full of faith, not aware of the father's wrongdoing. In Experience we see the true state of the child's betrayal.

"There are tone differences, too," Charles continued, cursing himself for missing Monday's class--a ridiculous notion considering he wasn't even registered in the class, let alone a student. Still, it had been far too long since he had last read either works. "In Innocence, the tone is simplistic, naive, whereas in Experience it is cynical, almost omniscient."

The whole room was watching him now, but Charles barely noticed--he was too busy staring at Lehnsherr, who was watching Charles with something Charles could only hope was open interest. Charles smiled when his rambling came to a stop, a little awkwardly he thought, but it was hard to think under the weight of that gaze.

"Well said, Mr. Charles," Lehnsherr eventually said. He turned back to the room and began expounding on Charles' answer, adding something about Blake's life experiences colouring his perspective--whatever it was it was lost to Charles, Charles noticing then that Lehnsherr talked with his hands.

Oh, God, he had such lovely, lovely hands.

~*~

Janos came in near the end of the lecture and began collecting Erik's things. If there was one thing Erik hated doing, it was sticking around at the end of a class to answer questions--he had office hours for a reason. Today might not be so bad, though, Erik thought, because unlike his previous classes, this time he'd actually inspired a little participation.

He still had too many students in his class--and he was fairly certain stuffing them all into the classroom violated fire codes--many of whom had obviously never once studied poetry. Today marked the first day someone had actively, without prompting, opened a discussion. As Erik wrote out the weekend's reading requirements on the blackboard--and it amazed him that there was a school anywhere that hadn't switched over to white--he tried to remember if anyone on the official class list had the surname Charles.

"We're looking at Wordsworth and Coleridge next week, so please ensure you have read Lyrical Ballad, with Preface," Erik said when he had written out the page numbers. He turned back to the face the class, and then dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

Unlike a good number of his classes at Heidelberg, his students didn't immediately flee for the door. They lingered, many casting glances towards the front of the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two girls nudging each other. They took a tentative step in his direction, Erik frantically stuffing notes into his satchel in an attempt to escape whatever it was they were planning. Fortunately for him, they lost their nerve the second Mr. Charles brushed past them, giving them both a slight nod as he approached the front of the classroom--no hesitance there, Mr. Charles completely at ease, like he owned the school. He came to stand in front of the podium.

Erik caught his eye and promptly wished he hadn't. Mr. Charles had hauntingly beautiful eyes. It wasn't like him to notice such things.

"Mr. Charles," he said, when the boy continued to stare, head cocked to the side, hands stuffed into his pockets. He smiled, somewhat lazily, Erik thought.

The boy's eyes weren't his only source of beauty.

Erik shook his head at that, because he was not that sort of man. He'd been on the receiving end of that sort of man, and it had scarred him for life--well, more than he was already scarred, which was perhaps not saying much. Still, if his experience with Professor Shaw had taught him anything, it was that Erik should stay as far away from his students as humanly possible.

"It's just Charles," Mr. Charles was saying. "Charles Xavier, actually. And I just wanted to say welcome to Columbia."

There was something decidedly inviting in the turn of Mr. Xavier's body, a thought that Erik cut off almost as soon as it formed. He glanced down at the podium and found it cleared.

"Thank you, Mr. Xavier," he said, tossing his satchel over his shoulder. He wanted to leave, but to do so he would need to physically remove Xavier from his path. Erik debated his options.

"And, of course, since you're new in town, if you ever need anyone to show you around, or even point out the nicer places to eat, please don't hesitate to ask."

Erik froze, not quite sure how to respond to that.

"Thank you for the offer, Mr. Xavier," he eventually said, seeking the quickest way to end this conversation before it grew any more uncomfortable than it already was. "I'll see you on Monday," he tried.

Xavier beamed at that--though why, Erik couldn't say--and then stepped aside, gesturing towards the door. For one brief, hysterical moment, Erik though Xavier might actually try to walk him from the room. He didn't, letting Erik leave.

Out in the hall, Janos immediately fell into step at Erik's side. "Do you have the class list?" Erik asked.

Without pausing, Janos twisted his bag around so that it hung in front, rummaging through it until he found what he was searching for. He handed over a piece of paper. Erik scanned the list, looking under both C for Charles and X for Xavier, but neither name appeared on the list. Xavier was one of his sit-ins, then--and it was ridiculous how many he had.

He was older, Erik thought--at the very least a senior, though Erik suspected he might be a graduate student. Not that it made any difference--he was still a student and Erik was still in a position of authority. Erik shook his head, scolding himself for letting the thought linger.

"I'm going to go grab some coffee. Can you drop these by my office," Erik said, handing over the class list and his satchel. Janos, easily the best TA Erik had ever had, wordlessly accepted both and then vanished in the direction of Erik's office.

After he was gone, Erik, without quite meaning to, thought about Xavier. He was maybe close to Janos' age--possibly a few years younger. He tried to imagine taking advantage of his influence over Janos, but couldn't. He scanned the crowd of passing students, but found no attraction there either. Obviously, Xavier was just an anomaly. It was somewhat of a relief to learn he wasn't destined to follow in Shaw's footsteps. After Erik had graduated, Shaw had deemed him too old, and had promptly found a new eighteen year old to drag through his bed. It remained one of Erik's more bitter experiences.

In all likelihood what he was experiencing was just excitement at having an apt student in his class, even if he wasn't sitting for credit. Erik nodded at that, content with the explanation. He headed out to grab his coffee and then see about putting together some notes for this afternoon's Milton seminar.

~*~

The moment Erik left the classroom, Charles pulled out his iPhone. He texted Moira, because he had few friends and couldn't think of anyone on that short list who might actually want to listen to him talk about Erik.

It was rather ridiculous that he wanted to talk about Erik. Charles couldn't remember the last time someone had so thoroughly--and quickly--affected him.

[ ](http://nekosmuse.com/firsttext.jpg)

Charles smiled when Moira didn't respond. He expected by busy she meant she was with Sean--though it was entirely possible she was neck-deep in cultures at the lab. Charles didn't have to wonder for long, his phone ringing a second later.

"You've fallen in love?" Moira asked the second Charles answered. Charles chuckled.

"Okay, perhaps that's a little premature, but certainly I have fallen in lust."

He could almost picture Moira rolling her eyes. Charles grinned to himself, thankful there wasn't another class scheduled after Erik's--he probably looked like an idiot, standing next to Erik's podium, smiling into his phone like a loon.

"It's 9:30 in the morning, on a day I told you to sleep in. How in the hell did you fall into lust?" Charles could hear the muted sounds of a computer fan in the background. Moira was in her office then. He started moving, intending to catch a shuttle.

"I found the man who stole my students," Charles said. "He's pretty much a Greek god, unless the German's had gods who ran around all oiled and chiselled, wearing loin cloths, in which case he's a German god."

And now he was picturing Erik wearing a loin cloth. The image was highly distracting. It was quickly becoming apparent that Charles' lack of a social life needed to be remedied. He needed to get laid, and quickly.

"You're not making any sense, Charles. Or rather, you're making less sense than you usually do, which doesn't bode well for anybody, especially not me. Explain."

He loved this about Moira--had loved this about Moira the second they met, when she'd tried so hard to be his teacher and mentor, and Charles had delighted in teasing her mercilessly. She was easily the best friend he had ever had.

"That class I had to cancel," Charles said, exiting Hamilton Hall now. It looked like the rain was actually going to hold off. "My students ditched me for a Romantic Poetry course, taught by one Erik Lehnsherr, a visiting professor from Heidelberg. I tracked him down today."

"You tracked him down? How?" Moira asked. She liked details. It was impossible to cut corners with her.

"Those girls I talked to yesterday told me, and then I confirmed it with Scott." That earned him a released breath. Moira was around for Scott. "Anyway, I went to his room, checked him out, and fell in lust."

For the longest minute Moira was perfectly silent. Charles could tell she was busy processing everything he had just said. He headed over to where he could catch a free shuttle that would take him to the Medical Center.

"Did you ask him out?" Moira eventually asked, because clearly this was the important part--even Charles thought so.

"Kind of," Charles admitted.

"Kind of?"

"I offered to show him around town, and he said he appreciated the offer, or something like that. Then he told me he'd see me on Monday."

"So you have a date Monday?"

Charles pondered this even as he transferred his iPhone from his right ear to his left, his neck starting to crick.

"I think it was an invitation to attend another lecture," Charles admitted. He endured another long pause.

"Do you even know if this guy is gay?" Moira asked, which was a fair question, because Charles tended to operate on the assumption that every attractive guy in New York was a) gay and b) interested in Charles. It had earned him more than a few fat lips, and on one memorable occasion a drink in the face--this from the guy's wife. On the flip side, it had also introduced Moira to Sean. She'd come over expecting to have to rescue Charles from the slightly wild looking red-head who might or might not have taken offense to a drunk Charles trying to stick his tongue down Sean's throat.

Charles had obviously paused too long, because Moira continued, "You don't, do you?"

"I'm working on it," Charles said, and technically that was true. As of Monday morning, operation seduce Erik Lehnsherr would be in full swing.


	3. Chapter 3

On Wednesday morning, shortly after Erik's first class ended, Raven had texted to remind him of his missed psychiatrist appointment.

If it were up to Erik, he wouldn't even be seeing a shrink--as Raven so eloquently called them. If it were up to Raven, Erik would go twice a week--that was how often she saw hers. And if it were up to his psychiatrist, Erik would go once a week. Erik had compromised with once every other week, and while neither of the women in his life--and he only had two--were particularly happy, at the very least it kept them off his back.

He was hoping, when he'd called Wednesday morning, that his shrink would be so overbooked that she would dismiss his missed appointment and simply have him come in for his next scheduled one. Obviously, it didn't work that way--which was why Erik was trying to fit in an appointment before his only Thursday class.

Dr. Emma Frost's office was located in one of New York's nicer neighbourhoods--the Upper East Side, Raven had told him after she'd found it, quite serious as she listed Frost's credentials. She was on the eighth floor of a tall, pressure-washed grey stone building, not half a block away from Central Park. Erik had spent a lot of time wandering around this neighbourhood, always in a vain attempt to avoid his appointments--and no matter how many times he tried, Dr. Frost always called. He hadn't received the last call because he'd lost his handy--and he really needed to remember to call them cellphones now that he was in the States--and she didn't have his replacement number.

Erik expected that would be the first order of business.

Appointments with Dr. Frost were ridiculously expensive, and although the university provided mental health benefits--even to visiting professors--Erik outright refused to submit a claim. If there was a chance that someone, somewhere, might be able to connect his name to Dr. Frost's, then Erik wanted no part of it. It was better to simply pay out of pocket and consider the appointment a fixed expense.

Raven didn't have benefits--or a job for that matter--and complained--bitterly at times--about the cost. She refused to go to anyone cheaper, seeing someone in the same building, two floors down. She also refused to scale back the frequency of her appointments. Raven was particular like that. She told him once that her psychiatrist had said it was because she'd been stripped of control during her childhood, and so now wanted complete control over every aspect of her life, the choice of psychiatrist included.

It seemed like hogwash to Erik, but then, he studied poetry, not psychology.

It was pretty straight forward getting to Dr. Frost's office from his apartment in Union Square, though the trip to the school after would require three transfers and an extended walk. Erik paused outside the door, under the green awning that held off the day's slight drizzle. He thought seriously about turning around--and why he didn't just give up on the whole thing, Raven be damned, Erik didn't know. Instead he pulled open the door, stepped inside and headed towards the elevator.

Dr. Frost's office was decorated entirely in white, like something out of a winter wonderland--Erik often wondered if it was meant as an allusion to her name. Certainly it matched her personality--and that, Erik suspected, was the main reason he continued to see Dr. Frost, because she was distant and professional and didn't spend their sessions trying to get him in touch with his feelings.

There was really only so much Erik was willing to do for Raven.

Dr. Frost's assistant, Angel, greeted Erik the second he came through the door.

"She's already waiting," she said, Erik noticing then that Dr. Frost's door stood open. He wasn't even that late.

Erik nodded his thanks, drew his coat around himself--a pathetic shield, but it made him feel marginally better--and entered Dr. Frost's office.

She was sitting behind her desk--a cream coloured French oak monstrosity that spanned the entire width of the narrow room. Dr. Frost was dwarfed by it. In front of the desk sat two wing-backed chairs, both covered in white Italian leather. Offset from the desk and chairs, and tucked under the room's bank of windows, was a white leather couch and an art-deco looking chair arranged in a parody of every single 'patient visits his psychiatrist' film scene Erik had ever seen. When he'd asked, Dr. Frost told him that sometimes it was important to meet a patient's expectations. Erik always chose to sit in the chairs, trapping Dr. Frost behind her desk.

"Good morning, Erik," Dr. Frost said, gesturing for Erik to close the door. Erik hated doing so--one less avenue of escape--but he did as instructed, and then crossed the room to claim his usual seat.

"Sorry about last week. I lost my cellphone and had to get a new one," Erik said, not quite sure why Dr. Frost inspired the confession.

"That's all right. Just make sure you give Angel your new number on the way out." Erik nodded.

Usually, during these sessions, Erik sat in his chair and stared across Dr. Frost's desk, while Dr. Frost stared back. Eventually, she'd grow tired of waiting him out and prompt him with a question--usually something benign. Erik didn't begrudge Dr. Frost her job, but he didn't like to volunteer information. He was perfectly content to sit and wait; answer the few questions she shot in his direction.

Today was no different. Dr. Frost lasted ten minutes before she glanced down at her desk, making a show of looking over her notes from last week. She cleared her throat.

"Last week we were talking about your sister, and why she feels you need to be here."

Dr. Frost said stuff like that all the time. It was never why she thought Erik should be here, or whether Erik wanted to be here. She had a way of sidestepping the things she wanted to ask, somehow manipulating Erik into coming to the topic on his own.

Today Erik merely waited.

"You said," here she glanced down at her notes again, French manicured nail moving across the page as she read, "your sister worries about you, and that coming here makes her not worry so much."

"That's true," Erik said.

"Does it bother you that she worries?"

Erik shifted, repositioning himself in his seat. He had no doubt Dr. Frost had read all sorts into the movement, but it couldn't be helped. Dr. Frost's office made him intensely uncomfortable.

"She's had enough to worry about in her life. She doesn't need to worry about me too."

Erik had always been fiercely protective of Raven. She was six, Erik eleven, when she'd come to stay with the Eisenhardt family. By that point Erik had already been through four foster homes, his parents two years dead. The Eisenhardt house was by far the worse. It was certainly no place for a six year old girl.

Raven had latched on to Erik after he'd protected her from one of the middle-aged children. That first night, he'd shared his extra heel of bread with her. She'd been his responsibility, and his only family, since. He'd failed her more times than he could count in that house, but as soon as he'd been accepted into university, he'd taken her with him. It wasn't a perfect life, Erik forced to work two jobs on top of going to school just to keep food on their table, but it sure beat the hell they'd spent the last six years living in. She'd been following him around ever since.

"Why does your sister worry about you, Erik?" Dr. Frost asked when it became clear that Erik had no intention of elaborating.

Erik wasn't an idiot. He knew what Dr. Frost was driving at. She wanted to know why he was here--regardless of who it was who wanted him here. He'd already deduced that she wasn't the sort of doctor who wanted only to make a diagnosis, but it undoubtedly frustrated her that she knew next to nothing about Erik's history--or his present for that matter.

She didn't, for example, know that Raven was Erik's foster sister, and not his biological one.

She also didn't know that he used to find Raven hiding in her closet, sniffling into the blanket he'd bought for her tenth birthday--that she still had today--all because Erik had woken screaming from a nightmare and the sound had frightened her. _Entschuldigung, Entschuldigung_ , he used to tell her, kissing her brow and mumbling words of comfort into her hair. It was something his mother used to do for him, when she was still alive and Erik was in need of comforting.

"I guess I don't sleep well. And she says I work too much. That I don't socialize enough."

Dr. Frost perked up at that. She knew that Erik was a visiting professor at Columbia, and that he taught in the English department, but little else. Erik suspected he'd just given her an entire avenue for discussion. He relaxed a little; discussing his job was something Erik had absolutely no problems doing.

"The last time I saw you, the school year hadn't started yet. You said you were eager for it begin. Is it going well?"

Erik nodded; a non-committal answer that earned him one of Dr. Frost's arched eyebrows.

"It's still early, the students warming up, but my classes seem popular," he didn't tell her how popular, "and I have a pretty good batch of kids, I think." Certainly he had no one who was outright disrespectful, though there was only a handful, spread across his classes, who genuinely seemed prepared to go above and beyond what was expected of them.

Unbidden, Erik found himself thinking of Charles Xavier. He had no idea why the boy was so firmly stuck in his head. He wondered if he ought to broach the topic with Dr. Frost. It was probably the sort of starting point she was looking for--a way of getting inside Erik's head.

Erik kept his silence.

The rest of the session continued in the same vein, Dr. Frost asking innocuous enough questions--about his course material, the school environment, and his schedule--Erik answering each, always wondering exactly what it was she was getting from them. By the end of their ninety minute session, Dr. Frost seemed marginally satisfied, while Erik felt like he'd just wasted an hour and a half of his time.

"Don't forget to give Angel your new number," Dr. Frost said as Erik prepared to leave--an easy thing, considering he hadn't even bothered taking his coat off. Dr. Frost had stood, and now circled around her desk, the jacket of her white pants-suit seeming oddly like a doctor's coat. She walked him to the door. Erik did his best to ignore her presence.

On the way out, Erik stopped by Angel's desk to update his contact information.

~*~

Operation seduce Erik Lehnsherr--which was now an official name, Charles having prepared a [worksheet](http://www.nekosmuse.com/OSEL.pdf), with procedures and everything--was becoming increasingly complicated.

His procedures had backup plans.

Charles had spent the better part of Wednesday afternoon and evening too giddy with excitement to do anything but fantasize about what it might be like to suck on Erik's fingers. On Thursday, he'd decided it would probably be prudent to devise a plan, and so had created his worksheet. His mood soured slightly Thursday night when he came home to a message from his mother--left at three in the afternoon and from the lilt of her voice, it was obvious she was drunk. She'd reminded him of his stepfather's birthday-- _this weekend, Charles, and you ought to at least consider telephoning_.

Charles had spent the remainder of the evening scrubbing the grout in his tub. He found cleaning marginally therapeutic, although he suspected that was largely because his mother would faint if she ever learned her son was doing manual labour--kind of like she'd fainted when Charles first announced he was gay. She tended to ignore any reference to his sexuality now, changing the subject or ignoring him outright whenever Charles brought the subject up. Certainly, though, she'd made certain--and this was probably his stepfather's doing--to include a clause in her will that stated Charles' inheritance was forfeit if he hadn't by the time of their deaths married and produced one heir--and the fact that they'd found a lawyer both willing and capable of adding the clause was astounding.

Charles was looking forward to showing up at the funeral with his husband and conceived-via-surrogate child. Not that he particularly wanted their money.

At least Friday began well, Charles spotting Erik leaving Brownies just as Charles was heading in. Charles shouted, but between the din of the early morning crowd and the distance between them, Erik didn't hear, Charles left with the option of chasing Erik down or waiting until Monday to initiate his operation.

 _Stick to the plan_ , Charles told himself, which was probably for the best, because a night of scrubbing tiles with harsh chemicals had left his hands red and raw and his eyes so dried out he was forced to continually blink. Charles rather wanted to look his best the next time he saw Erik.

Fridays were easily his favourite day of the week--though not for the usual reasons. He got to teach his only 4000 level course, Molecular Genetics, and while the course was open to anyone with the prerequisites, a good number of his students were graduate students. He was hoping, if he managed to convince Moira, that they might allow him to host one of the seminars next semester. He'd written a paper over the summer that he thought might make for a good topic. If he thought he could get away with it, he would spend the rest of his career teaching only seminars.

That wasn't until this afternoon, though, and this morning Charles on a mission. As soon as he had his coffee in hand, he headed over to Book Culture, hoping they might still have copies of the required texts for Erik's Romantic Poetry class. It was iffy--they tended to order these things according to class list, and from what Charles had uncovered, a good number of Erik's students weren't actually registered--but Charles had high hopes that at least half the students had waived buying the books in favour of googling the required poems.

The store was practically empty at this time of day--morning classes well underway, the long lines commonplace in the first week having vanished. Charles ducked inside, breathing deep the scent of newly printed paper and binding glue. Most people liked the scent of old books--musty and antiquated--but their scent tended to remind Charles of growing up in Westchester. He liked the scent of new, modernity the cornerstone of his existence.

The girl behind the counter looked like she would rather be sleeping. She leaned, half slumped over the counter, fighting the start of a yawn in what Charles could tell was a losing battle. Charles watched her for a moment, and then crossed to stand at her side, clearing his throat briefly when she failed to notice his arrival.

"Yeah," she said with disaffected interest.

"The required reading list for English 4402, please," Charles said.

From the red of the girl's eyes, Charles suspected she was very hung over. Certainly she moved gingerly, as though not wanting to jostle a headache.

She printed him out a list, gesturing to the back of the store before reassuming her half slumped position. Charles glanced at the slip of paper--only three texts, and two of those optional--as he crossed to the English section.

Unsurprisingly, there was one copy of the required anthology, and dozens of the optional texts. Charles picked up all three and headed back to the counter.

He'd met Scott when he was just starting his PhD work. Scott had been into motorcycles--still was as far as Charles knew--so Charles had spent weeks reading up on the subject. By the time he had finished, he knew everything there was to know about bikes, including how to ride one. It was just something he did--getting a little too interested in the things that made the people he was interested in interesting.

Moira had told him once that it was a little creepy, like Charles was some kind of stalker. She told him that he should just be himself; let people get to know the real him and then decide if he was someone they wanted to know. Charles hadn't found the advice terribly useful. For one thing, the real him was an intensely boring person who was far too arrogant for his own good and constantly in danger of putting his foot in his mouth. Charles wasn't good with people--however much he wanted to be. It was easier to simply pretend he was someone else.

Moira seemed to think that one day that wouldn't be good enough, and she was probably right--after all, Charles' interest in motorcycles had waned fairly quickly, his relationship with Scott fizzling long before it had officially ending.

Still, he paid for his books and tucked them into his messenger bag, and then headed out to the street to catch a bus bound for the Medical Center.

Moira, when he saw her, was fighting a pleased smile that seemed to light up her entire face. Charles only had to glance at the vase on her desk--filled with day lilies, her favourite flower--to discover its origin.

Charles crossed the room to sink into one of the chairs facing her desk. He set his bag on the floor.

"I've re-done your lab schedule," Moira said, handing Charles over a slip of paper. "I'm emailing you a copy as well," she said, just as Charles' phone chimed.

"Nice flowers," Charles said. Moira blushed.

"And I've arranged for you to sit in as a lab mentor during Dr. Ashnar's Somatic Mutations in Cancer Genomes seminar." Charles winced. Moira was clearly punishing him for something. Still, he was unperturbed.

"You're not going to tell me who they're from?" he asked.

Moira glanced up at that, making eye contact for the first time since Charles had arrived. Her cheeks were stained red--smile still tugging at her lips--but she held Charles' gaze.

"How is Operation Seduce Erik Lehnsherr coming along?" she asked. Charles knew he shouldn't have emailed her his worksheet.

"I'm working on it," Charles said. He reached down and pulled his bag onto his lap, retrieving his newly purchased books. He set them on the desk. Moira frowned at the titles.

"Oh, Charles. If you weren't so much of a complete dork, I might actually despair for you. As it stands right now, you at least have a fifty-fifty chance of coming across as adorable."

Charles was fairly certain he was meant to feel insulted, but the day had started on a high note and he wasn't willing to forfeit that quite yet.

"Has this ever not worked?" Charles asked. Moira conceded the point with a nod.

"The flowers, by the way, are from Sean, and he and some friends are having dinner tonight down in the Flatiron district, I was hoping you might come, balance things out. I don't really know his friends all that well yet, and Sean said I could invite you provided you kept your tongue out of his mouth."

Charles laughed at that. He had no intention of putting his tongue anywhere that wasn't connected to Erik Lehnsherr, so he nodded, enduring Moira's exasperated eye roll as he packed away his books and stood to leave.

"Dinner's at 8:00, but we were going to take a cab, so if you want to meet here at 7:30, we could split one. And please wear something nice."

Charles knew that was code for _nothing you'd wear in front of your students_ , which pretty much discounted ninety percent of Charles' wardrobe. Still, he nodded, and then went in search of Hank, hoping now that his lab schedule was set they could start working out the logistics of their latest research project.

~*~

Charles hated riding in the front seat of a cab. He avoided it whenever possible, but at the moment it was either that or squeeze into the back with Moira, Sean and Sean's sister--certainly he couldn't make either Moira or Sean's sister take the front seat, and Moira would have killed him if he'd insisted Sean take it, so Charles was forced into conversation with a man who seemed convinced Charles was going to pull out a weapon and rob him at any given moment.

The trip wasn't particularly far--not usually--but it was a Friday night, and traffic was bad, so tonight it seemed to take an eternity. By the time they pulled to a stop in front of Gramercy Tavern, Charles was taut with awkward tension. He flew out of the cab the second it stopped moving, leaving Sean to pick up the tab--it was the least he could do--Charles relaxing the second his feet hit the sidewalk. He breathed deep against the chill in the air, thankful that for once it wasn't raining.

Gramercy Tavern wasn't Charles' favourite place in the city, but he'd been before--a few times--and the food was good, the atmosphere inviting. It was certainly a popular place, one of the top ranked restaurants in Manhattan--Charles had no idea how Sean had scored a weekend reservation--which was probably one of the reasons Charles tended to avoid the place. It reminded him of the trendy restaurants his mother dragged him to whenever she deigned to visit. She never made a reservation, always counting on the Xavier name to clear them a table. It always did.

The cab pulled away as Moira joined him on the sidewalk, Sean chatting amicably with his sister.

"I haven't been before," she said, sounding more than a little delighted. God, she was utterly smitten. Charles smiled.

"It's all right," he said, then promptly realized that he was completely unprepared for dinner.

Oh, he'd showered, and shaved, and put on cologne. He'd even managed a flattering slate grey suit--no tie, though--complete with polished shoes. He looked what his mother would call presentable. Moira had said he looked edible, whatever that meant. What he hadn't done was stop at an ATM. He had maybe twenty dollars in his pocket, with no credit card--he only kept the one and it had expired without its replacement arriving, something Charles kept meaning to call his bank about. With dinner likely to run over a hundred--for him alone--he was going to be a little short.

"I just realized I don't have any money," Charles said, glancing around the street while trying to recall where the nearest ATM was.

"That's all right, I can cover you," Moira said, but Charles shook his head. He didn't accept loans, from anyone, ever, no matter for how short a period. It didn't seem to matter how hard he tried to escape his family, he couldn't seem to escape the Xavier family pride.

"It's fine. I'll just hit an ATM and then meet you inside," Charles said.

Sean, who had obviously overheard their conversation, came to stand at Moira's side. "They take credit card, but if you want cash, there's an ATM around the corner," he said, gesturing. Charles nodded his thanks and then offered Moira an apologetic bow.

He left Sean to lead Moira and his sister into the restaurant, Charles jogging around the corner, spotting the glowing orange sign advertising an ATM inside a convenience store. He headed towards it, and was about to slip in through the door when a familiar--and somewhat surprising--figure stepped out. Charles skidded to a stop.

Erik, who obviously recognized Charles--and Charles took that as a very good sign--stopped in the doorway. He blinked.

"Mr. Xavier," he said, moving aside then, stepping out onto the sidewalk when a woman carrying an oversized handbag tried to shoulder her way past.

"Hello," Charles said, the power of speech having seemingly abandoned him. He wanted to ask Erik what he was doing here--wanted to invite Erik to dinner, to jump straight ahead to flirting mercilessly because oh God did Erik look particularly attractive tonight.

And that was probably why Charles' brain had short circuited and he was left standing, incapable of speech.

Erik was wearing a soft brown leather jacket, hung open to reveal a plum-coloured turtleneck that was so fitted Charles imagined he could make out the definition of Erik's abs--and okay that was definitely his imagination. His slacks, soft grey and immaculately cut, perfectly framed his crotch--and Charles wasn't looking there, really he wasn't; he did have some tact--and he stood with the kind of casual ease that had drawn Charles' attention during Erik's lecture.

Erik was staring at him now, as though uncertain how best to proceed. Charles opened his mouth to say something--anything--when the door to the store swung open and an attractive looking blond came forward to link her arm through Erik's.

Charles' world crashed to a resounding halt. He felt a little like throwing up.

Erik didn't wear a ring--and neither did this woman, Charles realized at a closer glance--which would mean she was a girlfriend. It was still a point against Charles' first hypothesis, never mind that he really wasn't the kind of guy to poach someone else's man.

The woman, who seemed to realize now that Charles and Erik knew each other, glanced first to Charles, then to Erik, and then back to Charles. She shook her head.

"Erik's a bit of an idiot when it comes to social conventions," she said, "so he's not going to introduce us. I'm his sister, Raven."

Charles' world stuttered to a start again, because of course, sister--not that the pair looked anything alike, but Charles, of all people, knew genetics could be odd like that. He smiled--rather more brightly than he'd perhaps intended, and offered a hand.

"Charles Xavier," he said. He probably should have elaborated on how he knew Erik, but his mind was still caught on _sister_ , hope beating so fiercely in his chest it was all he could do not to throw himself in Erik's arms--although, that technique, Charles had learned, tended to scare off more suitors than win them.

"A pleasure," Raven said. She'd released Erik's arm and had stepped forward, eyeing Charles in what Charles quickly realized was an expression of interest. He felt a momentary surge of amusement before realizing he should probably put her straight--so to speak---before she embarrassed herself.

"Sorry," he said, gesturing to himself. "Gay."

Raven faltered, but then she smiled--a knowing thing that made Charles' heart flutter. She glanced at Erik, shooting him a smirk, before turning her attention back to Charles.

"Really," she said, and Charles didn't miss the innuendo in her tone.

Charles could have kissed her. He really could have. She'd just effectively outed her brother, which meant Charles' first experiment was a rousing success. Apparently Operation Seduce Erik Lehnsherr was going to be a lot easier than Charles had first anticipated.

Charles glanced at Erik to offer him a sly smile--the one he reserved for people he wanted to take to bed; the same one that Moira said made him look like a lab rat chasing a piece of cheese--but the expression on Erik's face--thunderous and embarrassed--made him hesitate.

"My apologies, Mr. Xavier, but my sister and I must get going," Erik said, grabbing Raven's arm--a little roughly Charles thought--and pulling her down the street, in the opposite direction of the restaurant that was Charles' destination.

"Okay," Charles called after them, not entirely certain what had just happened. "It was nice meeting you, Raven, and I'll see you on Monday, Erik," he shouted. Too late he realized doing so probably made him look incredibly pathetic.

Oh well, at least he knew now that Erik Lehnsherr was interested in men. That had to count for something, didn't it?


	4. Chapter 4

Erik ran a hand over the back of his neck, stretching out the kinks from a night of tossing and turning. In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have cut off whatever it was Raven had wanted to talk about--although Erik knew exactly what she was going to say. The end result was a more epic than usual struggle to fall asleep, Erik worn thin by the effort.

It also meant he'd woken at the ungodly hour of 4:30. The light in the bathroom was far too bright for the still twilight streaming in through the window. It made everything harsh and ugly. Erik could barely stand to look at his reflection. He did his best to ignore it as he lathered his face with shaving foam. The white of it made his teeth look yellow.

He shaved quickly, efficiently, then splashed cold water on his face and left the bathroom, patting his face dry with a hand towel as he padded to the kitchen. Erik didn't tend to form attachments to the places he lived, but he rather liked his and Raven's new apartment. The floors were cold--bare tile and endless stretches of wood--but otherwise the building held warmth better than any of the places he'd lived in so far. It bode well for the coming winter--from what little Erik remembered of New York, her winters were cold and damp, the kind of weather that made one want to stay inside for weeks on end.

The hall that ran to the bathroom and bedrooms opened into the front foyer, the kitchen to his left, the main living space straight ahead. Erik was halfway to the island counter that separated the kitchen from the living room when he realized he wasn't alone. He startled, coiling with tension as he prepared for a fight. It was an old reaction--a habit even.

Raven leaned over and clicked on the lamp next to the couch. She looked exhausted, sitting in her terry cloth robe, eyes red rimmed from where she'd obviously been crying.

"Ach, mein Gott, Raven. Are you all right?" Erik asked, wanting to scold her for startling him, but his annoyance vanished when he took in the dark circles under her eyes. She obviously hadn't slept.

It was something she did sometimes; insomnia one of her many demons. It hadn't happened in a while--tended to only when she was stressed or out of sorts. Erik had no doubt he had caused this. He shouldn't have yelled at her last night.

He crossed the room in three short strides and sat gingerly next to her on the sofa, not entirely certain how best to proceed. Sometimes she liked to be touched--an arm around the shoulder, or his fingers laced with hers--but sometimes touching made her skittish, like a frightened animal, more likely to lash out than relax into the comfort Erik was offering.

"Sorry if I woke you," she said, and Erik shook his head, because she hadn't. "It wasn't really your fault," she continued, "I was just mad because you were being a dick and then I got all worked up about it, and then I couldn't sleep."

This, Erik knew, warranted contact, so he placed his hand lightly atop her shoulder, patting her somewhat awkwardly. She leaned into the contact.

"I shouldn't have yelled. And I shouldn't have told you to drop it."

She'd said all of three words, _he was cute_ , before Erik had exploded, had told her to mind her own business and stay the hell out of it. To make matters worse he'd stormed off without giving her a chance to reply. He was a terrible, terrible brother sometimes.

"I didn't realize it was such a touchy subject." Raven shrugged. "He just seemed nice."

"And far, far too young for me," Erik said. He wanted coffee--wanted breakfast too, the Pad Thai they'd eaten before running into Xavier not as filling as he'd hoped it would be.

"He wasn't that young," Raven said. "Twenty five. Twenty six, maybe."

Erik snorted. "He's a student in one of my undergraduate courses. Twenty-one, tops."

Not that age made much difference at this point; although he'd probably feel a lot less bad about it if Xavier was twenty-six--less of a pervert, anyway. It didn't matter, though, because Xavier was still a student and hence off limits.

"Really?" Raven asked. She leaned forward and twisted around to make eye contact. "He didn't look like a student." And he hadn't, not last night, wearing a designer suit that clung to his body, hair tussled like he'd just fallen out of some upscale club.

"Well, he is, and that makes him off limits, so please don't even try to orchestrate whatever it is you're planning to orchestrate."

And that was why he had been so angry with her last night; not because she'd embarrassed him in front of a student--even though she had--but because he knew her well enough to know that the second his back was turned she would find a way to set him and Xavier up. Raven was nothing if not persistent. He still had nightmares about the time she'd sent him unsuspecting to a speed dating event.

"Fine, fine," Raven said, holding up her hands in surrender. "I just thought, what with the way you were looking at him, that you were interested, and I haven't seen you interested in anyone in a very long time--if ever. Also, it was pretty clear he was interested. Are you sure Columbia has rules about those sorts of things? Maybe he's a graduate student."

Erik did not want to be having this conversation. He never wanted to be having this conversation. Yes, Xavier was attractive--far more than Erik wanted him to be--but that didn't mean anything. Lots of people were attractive, and Erik didn't sleep with any of them. Whether Xavier was an undergraduate or a grad student made absolutely no difference.

"It doesn't matter what Columbia's rules are. He's a student, and I'm in a position of authority. I won't take advantage of that, period. I'm serious, Raven, drop it. Don't look him up, don't seek him out; just leave it alone."

It should have ended the conversation--Erik wanted it to end the conversation--but something in Raven's expression shifted, comprehension written across her features, her mouth falling open and her eyes growing wide. Erik knew what was coming, and dreaded it.

"Is this about Sebastian?" she asked.

Erik didn't dignify the question with an answer, instead letting his hand fall from Raven's shoulder even as he pushed himself off the couch and headed into the kitchen. He still wanted coffee.

"Oh, my god, it is. Erik, that was sixteen years ago."

"And you were twelve, so I'm pretty sure you're not qualified to comment on it."

He knew what it meant to meet someone--the first person who had ever shown Erik any kind of positive attention--and idolize them. Knew what it was like to want to follow in their footsteps, to want to connect with them in any way possible. He thought he was so mature, standing before Professor Sebastian Shaw at seventeen, newly escaped from his childhood misery. He thought they'd fallen in love in defiance of their age differences. He thought they'd kept their relationship hidden only to preserve Sebastian's job.

To find out otherwise had been somewhat life altering.

The process of making coffee--fill the carafe, measure the scoops, line the basket--was distracting, so Erik focused on doing exactly that. Raven had left her place on the couch; had come to stand on the opposite side of the island, leaning against it on her elbows, head resting in the palms of her hands. Her skin, porcelain white, seemed tinted blue by the kitchen light's reflecting against the cerulean counter top.

"I just want you to be happy, you know. To do normal things, like date people."

"I date people," Erik said, even though it was a lie.

His last date was... three years ago, Erik realized. He'd punched the guy in the face after he'd said Erik had a pretty mouth. Too late he'd realized the message had simply gotten lost in translation, the man's English about as rusty as Erik's Lithuanian. He'd figured out later the guy had simply meant to tell him he had a nice smile.

It was entirely possible Raven had a point. Still, "You don't date people."

"That's only because I have issues," Raven said, which Erik thought more than a little preposterous. It wasn't like she was the only one. They lived in a city of eight million people, the vast majority of whom had issues, Erik included.

As if to say as much, Erik gave her a pointed look, one Raven conceded with a slight incline of her head. Erik started the coffee maker brewing. Aside from their breathing, it was the only sound in the early morning pre-dawn.

"Are you going to want a cup?" Erik asked, retrieving two mugs from the cupboard. Raven shook her head. Erik set her cup aside.

"I think I may attempt to salvage some sleep," she said. She sounded grateful--though for their conversation or the end of her insomnia, Erik couldn't say. He watched her leave, listening to the steady drip-drip of the coffee maker until it beeped its completion.

Then he poured himself a cup.

~*~

Charles woke feeling like something had died in his mouth. In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have gone toe to toe with Sean for drinks. It was entirely possible Sean's boast of being able to drink anyone under the table was well earned.

Moira had seemed more than a little unimpressed.

Still, Charles had been floating high on his chance run in with Erik and had wanted to celebrate. After, he'd waved off Moira's concern and promised he'd catch his own cab, and then had gone back to the convenience store to loiter around outside until the store's owner had threatened to call the cops.

It wasn't his best moment, but on the off chance Erik had shown up again, Charles wasn't about to miss out--also, he'd been more than a little drunk and had wanted to fall to his knees and offer to suck Erik's cock. This, of course, was after Charles had announced his intentions to Moira, Sean, Sean's group of friends--including his sister--and half the restaurant who undoubtedly overheard because Charles hadn't exactly kept his voice down. It was probably a good thing one of Sean's friends knew the head chef, because otherwise they probably would have been kicked out long before Charles had gone on his drunken quest to find Erik's cock.

The whole incident had seemed a lot less mortifying last night.

With a degree of effort Charles would have rather not thought about, he levered himself out of bed, stopping with his feet hanging off the mattress while he tried to decide if this morning called for a visit to the porcelain god. He hadn't been that drunk in ages--not since he'd successfully defended his thesis and earned his letters. He'd woken up the next morning beside some burly guy with side burns who'd grunted and then promptly thrown up over the side of Charles' bed. It marked the first time after their breakup that Charles had thought about calling Scott and begging him to take Charles back.

His stomach seemed to be settling, so Charles stood, swaying against a brief wave of light-headedness as he crossed over to the small kitchenette that occupied the south-west corner of the room. His breakfast table--and it was one of the features Charles loved best about his apartment--folded into the wall, Charles releasing its mechanism so that it--and its bench seat--fell into room. He sat on the bench and put his head on the table. Obviously moving had been a really, really bad idea.

Across the room, his iPhone rang.

It was probably Moira, calling to make sure he'd gotten home safe--the only other person he thought might call was his mother, especially since today was Kurt's birthday, but Charles wasn't stupid enough to have given her his mobile number. Fully intending to ignore the ringing, it suddenly occurred to Charles that it might be Erik calling--though how Erik would have gotten his number was something that probably should have, but didn't, occur to Charles.

He shot up, faster than was wise, and dove across the room, finding his phone in the pocket of the jacket he'd worn last night. He cursed when he spotted Moira's name on the display.

"I was hoping you were Erik," he said in lieu of hello.

He could imagine Moira's confused frown. "Why would Erik be calling you?" she asked, sounding more than a little suspicious.

"I honestly have no idea," Charles admitted. He sat down heavily on his bed--the apartment had originally come with a bed, one that folded into the wall like his kitchen table, but Charles hadn't liked the look of it, so he'd had it removed and then had its pocket converted into a built-in bookshelf. Charles' new bed--the first piece of furniture he'd bought with his own money--looked like it belonged in a 1940s asylum, its stainless steel bars as utilitarian as they were kitsch. Charles loved the thing.

He was particularly looking forward to letting Erik handcuff him to the headboard.

It had occurred to him last night, during his convenience store vigil, that he needed more than one plan of attack. Attending Erik's lectures was all well and good, and Charles intended to do exactly that--he just hoped Moira wouldn't mind changing the lab schedule again--but he wanted a chance to get to know Erik outside of a classroom, not to mention it was bound to prove more than a little challenging seducing a man in front of a room full of students.

"Do you think Scott would throw a party and then invite me if I asked him?" Charles found himself asking. Erik undoubtedly knew Scott--had met him at least once--so he wouldn't think it at all odd if Scott were to invite him to some sort of social gathering, particularly if Scott also invited the rest of the English department.

"Charles, you cannot use Scott in your bid to woo Erik. It's just not right," Moira said. She probably had a point. It was actually pretty remarkable she'd even known what Charles was talking about.

When Charles didn't say anything, Moira pressed on.

"You know, you could simply make this easy on yourself and just ask the man out." Charles scoffed. Charles had never needed to do so in the past. Charles slowly wore his interests down, until they got so exasperated by his constant efforts that they gave in simply to get him to stop.

So far it had worked every time.

Moira, who obviously knew Charles wasn't going take her advice, added, "I suppose you could finagle yourself an invite to that British Poet Laureate shindig next month--I'm fairly certain the entire English department is expected to attend."

Charles perked up at that--as much as he was capable giving his current state. "What shindig?" he asked.

Moira let out an exasperated sigh. This was obviously not why she'd called.

"I don't know much about it, save what Sean was telling me, and he only knows about it because they're borrowing some musicians from the Music Department, but apparently the British Poet Laureate is coming to town and Columbia, in exchange for a speech and some press coverage, is throwing him, or her, a party. Or dinner. Or possibly gala. I'm not even sure the official invitations have gone out yet. Honestly, Charles, just ask him out."

Charles was sitting forward eagerly now, his threatened hangover forgotten. This could be good--this could be really good. He'd have to find out who Britain's Poet Laureate was, of course, read that person's poems, attend on the guise that he was a fan. Erik would be there; they could bond over their shared love of poetry, have a few drinks, and then head back to Charles' apartment to see about those handcuffs.

It was perfect.

"When is this thing?" he asked.

Moira sighed. She sounded particularly long-suffering today.

"You're really not going to listen to me, are you? Fine, have it your way. From what Sean told me, it's near the end of next month."

Charles frowned. There was no possible way he could wait that long. He'd be lucky if he made it to the end of next week before throwing himself at Erik--at the rate things were going, it would probably happen in front of his class. No, that wasn't going to work at all.

Moira, who knew Charles well, interjected before Charles could work himself into a complete lather.

"Why don't you file it away as a backup plan, and in the meantime, try a more standard approach. Invite him to coffee. But before you do that, can you please get your ass to the lab, because I got called in at six this morning by your boy Hank. Apparently he's had a eureka moment and needs you ASAP. I guess you weren't answering your phone."

Charles checked now, and found that he had missed three calls, all from Hank. There were two voice messages and several texts, plus an email. Charles had no recollection of having received any of them, which meant he'd probably been more unconscious than usual--another reason not to go drinking with Sean. It occurred to him then, staring at his phone, that it was fast approaching 10:00. Charles couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so late. He brought the phone back up to his ear.

"I can't make it in until this afternoon. He'll just have to be patient," Charles said. He had absolutely no plans, but he suspected it would be several hours--and pots of coffee--before he was capable of enduring the world outside his door.

Moira grunted something that might have been acceptance--but it might have been a threat against his life, too--and then made her goodbyes. Charles hung up, and then retrieved Hank's email.

Hank had been busy, obviously taking advantage of Charles' lost class to jump head first into their proposed project. That was Hank, though, a devote researcher, who if given the choice would lock himself inside a lab and never come out--the reason he'd been there all Friday night and expected Charles to come in on the weekends. He refused to lecture--refused to interact with students at all, unless their research coincided with his. Currently he had at least twelve projects on the go--and how he kept track of all of them, Charles didn't know--though Charles knew he would prioritize theirs. They were trying--and Charles had high hopes they could succeed--to forcibly mutate a series of stem cell genetic markers. If they were successful, it would mark a huge step forward in stem cell research.

Charles suspected he was going to need to order a few pigs for this.

When he was done reading the email, he sent Hank a text letting him know Charles was on his way--he neglected to mention it would be a few hours; Hank would undoubtedly lose track of time anyway, so if Charles showed up in an hour, or three, Hank wouldn't notice the difference. After he was done, he stared at the phone in his hand, and then glanced across the room to his landline. There was no way he was up for calling Kurt just yet, so Charles tossed his iPhone down onto the bed and headed back towards the kitchenette, this time to make coffee.

He made instant, mostly because he was lazy, but also because his mother would be mortified to learn he drank the stuff and Charles--however childish it might be--loved mortifying his mother--even theoretically. Then he grabbed his laptop, meaning only to sort through his usual news blogs, but he'd set his Firefox start page to Google, and the sight of the search box reminded him that he hadn't yet looked Erik up on the internet.

He couldn't believe he hadn't thought to do this earlier. It was usually his first order of business, but obviously meeting Erik had so thoroughly short-circuited his brain that it had turned Charles into an idiot.

Taking a sip from his mug, he cracked his knuckles and then typed in: Erik Lehnsherr.

A world of information appeared at his fingertips. There were profile pages from both Heidelberg and Oxford--where apparently Erik had completed his PhD work and taught for a while, as well as a number of citations and reference pages--no social media Charles noted, Erik obviously not the kind of guy to subscribe to Facebook or Twitter--but there at the top, the very first link, was a [Wikipedia article](http://www.nekosmuse.com/ErikLehnsherr.html).

It was sparse--really sparse, like someone had edited it so that it included the bare minimum of information. Charles imagined Erik doing exactly that. He seemed like the kind of guy who valued his privacy; who would go out of his way to ensure his private life remained private.

He read over the brief summary of Erik's academic career--and there was nothing about his personal life--but it was the next section that gave him pause. Erik had published poetry. A lot of poetry. Charles had never dated anyone who wrote poetry before. There was something about the idea that curled his toes--he could just imagine telling his mother, _why, yes, mother, I'm dating a poet, why do you ask?_.

He googled each of the poems listed, but couldn't find them online. He doubted they were the kind of thing he could just pick up in a bookstore, the work probably appearing in periodicals. He'd have to start at the university libraries. If he couldn't find anything there, he'd contact Oxford--certainly they would at least have his PhD work on hand.

Charles spent the better part of an hour researching Erik--Moira would probably call it stalking, but what did she know? It wasn't that it didn't occasionally occur to him that perhaps this was a little more obsessive than was healthy--after all, what did he really know about the man? He knew he had a lovely speaking voice, and beautiful hands, and penetrating eyes, and the most defined jawline Charles had ever seen. But he only met the man twice--once in the harsh light of a classroom, and once outside an ill lit convenience store. Was Charles really so desperate?

Charles frowned. That sounded like something Moira would say. God, she had finally rubbed off on him. This was all so much easier when Charles was still blissfully unaware of his neuroses.

But no, he decided, finding a [picture of Erik](http://www.nekosmuse.com/lehnsherr.jpg) attached to his University of Edinburgh profile. There was a decided connection there--Charles knew he wasn't the only one who had felt it. There was chemistry. Besides, it had been years since Charles had met someone who so thoroughly interested him. Probably not since Scott if he was honest--and looking back now, even that had paled in comparison. At the very least, Charles had to try. Besides, what was the worst that could happen?

Feeling reassured, Charles gave up searching the internet for Erik, instead turning his attention to uncovering the identity of the British Poet Laureate. He had no idea who this Sebastian Shaw fellow was, but he, at least, had a handful of poems available online.

Charles couldn't say he was particularly fond of them--some were outright creepy--but if it meant getting on Erik's good side, Charles could certainly pretend to like them.


	5. Chapter 5

Midway through the second year of his undergraduate degree, Charles' mother had telephoned to say that the daughter of a family friend was coming to Baltimore to check out Johns Hopkins--Charles' school at the time--in hopes of doing her graduate work there. It was heavily implied that Charles should show her a good time. It was subtly implied that Charles should fall in love with her, marry her, and then produce well bred, well-educated children to continue the family line.

Charles, hung over and more than a little put out--he and Hank, whom Charles had only just met, had spent the better part of the night drinking Jagerbombs while bitching about their prospective families--had promptly announced that he preferred cock and would be more than happy to give Jessica--her name was Jessica--a tour of Baltimore's gay club scene.

Too late, he'd realized, he could have just introduced her to Hank--who seemed destined to a life of bachelorhood--and solved all of their problems.

His mother, horrified, had hung up. Three weeks later, Charles had received a letter--from Kurt of all people--informing him that he had thirty days to remove his belongings from the house or it would be removed for him.

As far as disownings went, it was a fairly clean affair.

A few years later, when Charles was accepted to Oxford to do his masters work--and ironically enough, Charles had started the same year Erik had left, the two of them missing each other by a few scant months--his mother had telephoned--for the first time since his disowning--and told him that she would recognize him as her son provided he never again use such disrespectful language in her presence. In other words, she was perfectly willing to speak with him--though he was still cut off from the family fortune--provided he never again acknowledged his homosexuality in her presence.

Charles had agreed, though mostly to get her off the phone. It was 6:00 in the morning, Oxford time, and Charles was half trapped under the weight of some guy he'd picked up out in front of a pub. He didn't think his mother would appreciate the irony.

At the time of his disowning, though, Charles and Hank had borrowed Hank's sister's car and driven to Westchester so that Charles could toss the few belongings he wanted to keep into boxes. No one had been home at the time--his mother and Kurt in Paris on one of their jaunts--so it had been an easy matter to empty his childhood room into seven cardboard boxes, and then load them into the trunk and backseat and cart them back to Baltimore. Charles had been carting them around ever since.

They lived in the basement storage room now, inside Charles' locker that smelled more and more like mildew every time he was forced to root through it. He found the box he was looking for--his collection of spiral notebooks from boarding school, Charles incapable of throwing away anything related to his academic career.

He was rather glad now that he hadn't, because despite having read Lyrical Ballads--which he'd found online, the course text only including a handful of the collection's poems, and its Preface--the Preface twice now--Charles was still rather lost. He distinctly remembered having studied Wordsworth and Coleridge at boarding school, which meant, somewhere in his basement storage repository, Charles had notes on the subject.

It was either that or regurgitate what Wikipedia had to say on the subject, and Charles doubted that was the sort of thing that would impress Erik.

Charles found the box he was looking for, and lugged it up the stairs and into his apartment, setting it on top of the folded out table. Unfolding the flaps filled Charles' nose with the sharp scent of mold, rot and something Charles suspected might have been decay. He wasn't particularly looking forward to searching through the box to find the dead whatever--rat, probably--that was undoubtedly hiding amongst his books. He certainly wasn't looking forward to removing it.

"Ah," Charles said out loud, because apparently the finding was going to be quite easy, the mouse--and it had been a mouse--quite mummified by this point. Wrinkling his brow, Charles grabbed a tea towel from the counter and slid it under the corpse. He then tied the ends in a knot around the body so that Charles could walk it into the hall, where he tossed the bundle--tea towel and all--into the garbage chute.

After which, he promptly came inside and washed his hands. Twice.

Most of the notebooks were in no condition to be read--the whole bottom half of the box had at one point suffered water damage, the pages in these bottoms books ruined--but the ones on top were still in reasonable shape. It occurred to Charles then that he probably needed to look into a better storage system for his documents. He was fairly certain his PhD thesis was in one of those boxes.

It took the better part of forty minutes to find what he was looking for, Charles flipping through his boyhood notes--and God, there were even notes in the margins of some of them that Charles had completely forgotten having written. Charles could chart the progression of his sexuality simply by doodle alone. By sixth form, Charles had had little doubt regarding his preferences, but looking back now, it quickly became apparent that Charles had at least had some inkling much, much earlier.

He eventually found what he was looking for, a page and a half worth of notes on the collection. Most of the notes focused on the importance of the work, things like _dawn of the Romantic Movement_ and _changed course of English poetry_ highlighted in yellow, though neither would prove particularly helpful now. Apparently they had focused almost entirely on Rime of the Ancient Mariner, because there was a half a page worth of notes on the poem--a good thing, Charles suspected, because it was one of the poems included in the course text.

It still wasn't enough to bolster Charles' confidence--and he wished now that he hadn't left this so late, Monday morning the worst possible time to be attempting a rushed trip into the library. He should have done this yesterday, but Charles could already tell that Hank's enthusiasm for their latest project was going to consume the vast majority of his free time.

He still had a few hours left before Erik's class, though, so he probably had enough time to at least skim a few texts. He'd stop on the way, Charles decided, tucking his old notebook, along with Erik's text books, into his messenger bag. His apartment still smelled vaguely like dead mouse, so Charles waited until he was in the hall to sniff his shirt. The soft scent of laundry detergent along with the subtle scent of his old-spice body wash met his nose. Unaccountably nervous, Charles smoothed imaginary wrinkles out of his pants, and then headed outside.

He had two hours before he was due in Erik's class.

~*~

Weekends always left Erik feeling more than a little out of sorts. Raven was right when she said he lacked a social life--though it had never bothered Erik before. Most of the time he relished his free time; spent it writing or running--the only thing that tended to clear his head these days--or dragging Raven to foreign language films--which, in Germany, tended to be English language films, but now that they were in New York, Erik had taken to seeing anything that came with subtitles.

He'd taken her to see a Mandarin film last night, though she had complained bitterly about having to read the dialogue--Raven had never understood his obsession with language. Had Erik not studied literature, he would have undoubtedly studied linguistics. Language fascinated him.

After, he'd taken her to a tiny, out of the way coffeehouse in Greenwich Village, where they'd eaten biscotti and drank overpriced coffee. It was something Raven had always wanted to do--she'd talked about it continuously on the flight from Frankfurt to New York. To her it epitomized New York life. Last night marked the first occasion Erik had had to take her.

It would probably be the last. Erik had hated the experience; had only agreed to go because he still felt bad about Friday night, Raven having spent the whole of Saturday either moping or sleeping, so that by the time Sunday came around, Erik had been willing to do anything she'd asked just to cheer her up.

It was Monday again, and Erik felt disoriented by his two day break. He had a class to teach in fifteen minutes, but Erik couldn't bring himself to move, the chair behind his desk strangely comfortable this morning. Erik blinked at the pile of cue-cards sitting before him. He'd written them out with painstaking precision on Saturday night, but today they seemed stilted and forced. All the points he wanted to make seemed obvious and redundant. Erik toyed with the idea of cancelling the class.

It wouldn't be the first time. There were days when his mood was so bleak--the fog that seemed to pierce every corner of his life so thick--that he could do little else save slump in his chair and let time pass.

Today was one of those days.

There was a rap against his closed door, Erik's visitor revealing himself to be Janos as the door swung open, Janos coming inside, two cups of coffee in his hands. Wordlessly, he handed one to Erik.

Erik smiled appreciatively.

Janos seemed to have a sixth sense about these things--or maybe he'd just been working under Erik for too long, Janos a semester away from completing his thesis. He'd been with Erik from the beginning. Erik wasn't looking forward to having to replace him.

"I guess we should get this show on the road," Erik said, sipping his coffee even as he collected his cue-cards. He'd probably end up ignoring most of what he'd written, but that was okay--sometimes his best lectures came from the heart.

Janos nodded, a curt incline of his head, and then fell into step at Erik's side. They headed outside and crossed over to Hamilton Hall. It was a stunningly beautiful day--Erik hadn't registered that this morning, had only felt the exhaustion of two days idleness, but he registered it now. He'd travelled enough in his life that he was used to such oddities in the weather, New York no different from Berlin or London or Paris. The bridge between seasons was never seamless, and although Erik would have preferred a straight march from summer to winter, he was willing to accept the peaks and dips in temperature, if only because the peaks made him that much more likely to lace on some runners and get outside.

He could tell from the noise, even before he entered the room, that his 4402 class was again filled to capacity. He exchanged a brief glance with Janos--who seemed to feel they should just kick out the students who weren't meant to be there--and then headed inside. The room fell instantly quiet, all eyes tracking his progress across the room and to the podium. Once there, Erik let his gaze sweep across the room.

Immediately his gaze fell on Charles Xavier, who was sitting at the very front of the class today. He was leaned back in his chair, legs crossed casually, head cocked to the side as he caught Erik's eye. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Erik acknowledged him with a slight nod.

If someone asked him at the end of class, after his students had left, to describe or even name any of the people currently sitting before him, Erik was fairly certain he'd flounder. People didn't grab his attention--not like this, anyway--and when they did it was through the slow, steady progress of their work. Janos had grabbed his attention after Erik had read his first paper, but even then his only interest in Janos had been in helping to shape his mind. He wanted for Janos the things someone should have wanted for him, when Erik had started this journey oh so long ago now.

But Xavier; not only did Erik know his name, but he could describe in intimate detail exactly what he was wearing--loose blue cardigan buttoned over a white collared shirt and neatly pressed grey slacks. Raven was right; he didn't look like a typical student. Scrutinizing him now--which Erik attempted to do without actually looking in Xavier's direction--Erik could tell that he was older than Erik had first assumed. Raven's assessment of twenty-five, twenty-six probably wasn't far off. That would undoubtedly make him a graduate student, and one near the end of his studies--unless of course he'd come to the university as a mature student, which Erik had seen happen on more than one occasion. It was entirely possible Xavier had needed to take on a job first, earn some money--or maybe he'd simply wanted to have some fun, do the whole touring Europe thing that seemed big among the Americans Erik had met in Germany.

Either way, he felt marginally better for having noticed Xavier at all--not that he wasn't still off limits, but at least Erik felt secure in the knowledge that he wasn't perving on some seventeen year old.

God, he was only thirty-four. Shaw had been five years older than he was now when they'd first met. What the hell had Erik been thinking? For that matter, what had Shaw? It didn't bear thinking about, so Erik glanced down at his notes, and started the lecture.

 _The principal object, then, which I proposed to myself in these Poems was to choose incidents and situations from common life, and to relate or describe them, throughout, as far as was possible, in a selection of language really used by men; and, at the same time, to throw over them a certain colouring of imagination, whereby ordinary things should be presented to the mind in an unusual way; and, further, and above all, to make these incidents and situations interesting by tracing in them, truly though not ostentatiously, the primary laws of our nature: chiefly, as far as regards the manner in which we associate ideas in a state of excitement._

He glanced up to find the class watching with rapt attention. Xavier's lips were parted.

"Today we take for granted that poetry is a form of self-expression. We write--and I hope you all do write, even if it's only for yourself, because writing your own poetry is as essential in understanding the art as studying the works of others--in order to give a personal reflection of our interactions with ourselves and the world around us. This wasn't always the case.

"There was a time when poetry was meant only as an imitation of action, or an object fashioned to teach or please, but all of that changed with the Romantics. This is why studying Wordsworth is so crucial, because it is he who first sets us on the path we are on today; but more importantly, it is he who first tells us we are on the path. He maps it out, in perfect detail, contained entirely within his Preface to Lyrical Ballads."

Erik paused. Aside from the quote, none of this was what he'd written down. He was swept up in it now, his passion for the subject coming through in the candor of his tone.

"So how does Wordsworth describe poetry?" Erik asked.

He was expecting to have to lead the class--despite the answer being right there, written in black and white in Wordsworth's Preface. He did not expect Xavier to simply begin speaking; to quote directly from the Preface without ever once glancing at the page.

Erik's heart may have stuttered a little in his chest.

 _For all good poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: and though this be true, Poems to which any value can be attached were never produced on any variety of subjects but by a man who, being possessed of more than usual organic sensibility, had also thought long and deeply._

For a moment, all Erik could do was stare. He was acutely aware of the class, waiting with bated breath--though whether they were waiting to see if Xavier had gotten the right answer, or whether they were simply interested in the exchange, Erik couldn't say. He cleared his throat, and swore Xavier's smile grew mischievous.

"The exact quote I was looking for, yes," Erik said, "but what does it mean?" He was hoping, but not really expecting Xavier to be able to answer.

"It means good poetry is an externalization of internal emotions. The poet takes what is inside him and projects it out into the world. This can't happen without contemplation, without the poet knowing himself, which is why Wordsworth tells us the poet has thought long and deeply. He also tells us the subject is unimportant; that it is only the depth of the poet's understanding; the honesty of their feelings."

It occurred to Erik then that Xavier might be in want of an advisor--perhaps that was why he had been so friendly--and that Erik would soon be in want of a graduate student. The thought was alarming--though mostly because it would mean working in constant close quarters with Xavier and try as Erik might he could not picture spending time locked in his office with Xavier; at least, not without violating his own code of ethics.

"Very well said, Mr. Xavier," Erik said, needing to break contact before he got too caught up in their conversation. He suspected the other students might complain if he spent the whole of the class ignoring them.

He turned to another student, "Ms. Pride," he said, hoping he'd gotten the name right. She was one of the few students who had approached him during his office hours to ask after a particularly tricky passage. "Can you give us an example from Wordsworth's poetry that shows us why, at the time, this was such a radical concept?"

He let her answer sweep over him, keeping his eyes glued to her face even as he registered the poise of Xavier's posture; the way he watched with open interest, seeming genuinely enthralled by the subject. Ms. Pride's answer wasn't nearly as confident as Xavier's, but she made a few good points, all of which Erik pointed out, even as he dragged the conversation in a new direction, this time touching on Wordsworth's use of nature as a theme for highlighting his stance on good poetry and the new role of the poet.

~*~

Charles had a tendency to get a little more worked up than he perhaps needed to--something that had been dogging him ever since he was a child. He knew he was an intelligent man--had a genius level IQ--that he picked up and understood things faster and more instinctively than most. He also knew that unless he knew a subject inside and out--like he did genetics--he felt hopelessly inferior and incapable of providing an opinion.

It was perhaps why he had spent so much time preparing for this lecture--reading and rereading the entire collection of poems even when it turned out they were only covering the Preface today. It was also why he'd stopped at the library on his way in; although he had only managed to read a few papers on Lyrical Ballads before he was distracted by a search for Erik's poetry.

He'd found only one, a poem called _House of M_ that was part of the collection that had won Erik the Griffin Poetry Prize--and then only because the Griffin Prize released an annual anthology that included one poem from each of the short listed collections.

The poem seemed to be about a woman succumbing to mental breakdown following the loss of her children. It was a hauntingly beautiful poem--in Charles' opinion--poignant and written with such open vulnerability that Charles' breath had caught in his throat. It was hard to sit in class now, watching Erik lecture, interacting with Erik, and not think of that poem--not imagine the painstaking effort that had gone into it creation, or the agony Erik had undoubtedly felt in writing it.

Erik's lecture was coming to an end now--and Charles could have listened to him all day--Charles realizing that he had dominated the better part of Erik's interaction with his students. He probably should have felt bad about that--he wasn't technically a student, so it probably wasn't his place, never mind that he was probably distracting from Erik's actual students' education. Charles frowned at that. If he was honest they probably didn't care; some, he imagined, were probably thankful for Charles distracting Erik's attention.

Still, he'd contributed a lot to today's discussion--so much so in fact that every time Erik asked a new question, he first glanced in Charles' direction and offered an arched eyebrow. Charles answered, even when he wasn't entirely certain, always giving his opinion--even if he had to think about it first. Erik seemed more and more delighted as the lecture wore on. Charles mentally tallied today as a victory.

It was an easy thing, to approach Erik at the end of class. Charles was even starting to think that maybe Moira was right; maybe he should just cut to the chase and ask Erik out.

He wasn't the only one wanting a minute of Erik's time, however, two girls Charles didn't recognize--not his former students then--beating him to the front of the room. One of the girls turned and offered Charles a shy, somewhat coy smile. Charles startled. It wasn't the first time a student had hit on him, but it still left Charles feeling incredibly awkward. He never knew what to do in these situations; never knew how best to turn someone down without damaging their self-esteem.

In the end, he decided his best course of action was to smile non-committedly and then promptly ignore her.

He stood aside as the girls asked Erik their questions--and it was obvious the second girl, the one not smiling at Charles, had only wanted a moment to bask in Erik's presence--waiting until they had left to step forward. Erik's eyes flashed when he turned and found Charles standing there.

"You're very good at that," Charles said, elaborating at the confused expression that settled over Erik's features. "The lecturing, I mean."

"Thank you," Erik said. "Your contribution to the lecture was very insightful. It's nice to meet someone who shares my passion."

Charles was fairly certain he had undoubtedly lit up like a Christmas tree. He practically beamed. "I feel bad, though, dominating the discussion; I don't want to distract from anyone's education."

Erik laughed even as he shook his head. "It's fine. I for one appreciate a keen mind who is actually interested in learning."

Charles took that for what it was--an invitation to continue attending Erik's lectures. It was entirely possible Erik honestly enjoyed having someone willing to contribute to the discussion in his class, but Charles was hoping it was also because he wanted an excuse to continue seeing Charles--although, if that were the case, Charles wasn't sure why Erik didn't just ask him out. Certainly Charles had made no effort to hide his own interest. Maybe Erik was just the type to enjoy a long, leisurely seduction. He was European, after all.

Still, Erik's interest made for an interesting opening, so Charles stepped forward, leaned his hip against the podium and gave Erik his most seductive smile.

"Are you planning on attending that Poet Laureate affair?" he asked, already planning his next move. Erik would say yes, and Charles would suggest they attend together, and then say that maybe they ought to grab coffee before that.

He wasn't expecting Erik's expression to grow cloudy with confusion.

"What Poet Laureate affair?" he asked, and Charles remembered then that Moira wasn't certain whether the invitations had gone out. Obviously they hadn't.

"I'm not sure if it's official yet, but rumour has it Britain's Poet Laureate is coming to Columbia next month. I guess they're throwing him a big to-do."

Charles wasn't sure what he was expecting--at worse indifference, at best excitement--but he wasn't expecting Erik's face to fall, something Charles could only identify as horror creeping into his expression. He looked as though someone had just murdered his entire family, right before his eyes. Charles froze, all his carefully practiced lines abandoning him as he floundered, not entirely certain what had just happened.

"Are you all right?" he settled on asking, bringing a hand up to touch Erik's forearm--he'd marvel later at the solid warmth he found there.

Erik flinched at the contact, causing Charles to withdraw his hand as though burnt. He watched, mystified and more than a little concerned, as Erik mastered himself, shoulders squaring as his expression shifted into something more neutral.

"I'm fine," he said. He glanced over his shoulder, towards the door, where his TA was now waiting, seeming utterly confused by what he was witnessing. Charles cleared his throat.

"Was it something I said?" he asked.

"No. No, I'm sorry; I just have to go. I'll see you on Wednesday."

Charles watched, feeling both perplexed and dejected as Erik all but fled from the room--he hadn't even bothered to take his notes, which were still spread across the podium. Erik's TA glanced between Charles and Erik's retreating back, and then silently slipped from the room to follow Erik down the hall. Charles hesitated for the briefest of moments before gathering the things Erik had left behind, tucking them neatly into his messenger bag--though not before he had admired Erik's penmanship.

Whatever had happened, at the very least, Erik still wanted to see him on Wednesday. Charles took that to heart as he left the room, Erik growing increasingly more fascinating the longer Charles knew him.


	6. Chapter 6

The walk from Hamilton Hall to Philosophy Hall passed in a blur, Erik finding himself standing inside his office without really remembering how he'd gotten there. He blinked, staring at the surface of his desk, feeling then as though he'd been transported in time. He realized that his hands were shaking, so he curled them into fists and pressed them hard against his sides.

Shaw had taught his introduction to English Literature class--not a popular class, given that English was a second language for most of the student body. Erik was two weeks into the start of his university career when Professor Shaw invited him back to his office--not unlike the office Erik now called his own--and told him he that he had a remarkable talent. It had been a very long time since someone had called Erik remarkable--not since the death of his mother. Until that point, Erik's interaction with adults had pretty much consisted of being ignored or being knocked around.

In hindsight, Erik recognized grooming for what it was; Shaw slick in his manipulation. Shaw had had Erik in his bed within three months, all while Erik had thought the entire affair his idea.

The last time he'd seen Shaw was while he was working on his PhD, Erik attending a conference solely because Shaw was one of the speakers and Erik was still hung up on the man who'd broken his heart. He hadn't yet figured out what Shaw had done to him. It had taken years to put together the pieces, to recognize Shaw for what he was.

And now he was coming to Columbia, likely unaware that Erik was teaching here--not that he would care if he did know. Erik exhaled steadily, uncurled his fists, and crossed to his desk.

His office was one of the bigger ones on the third floor, the window behind his desk facing out over Amsterdam Ave. Erik liked the space--liked the steady hum of traffic that broke the silence with its white noise. Erik shrugged out of his coat--that he hadn't really needed given the turn in the weather--and hung it over the back of his chair. The chair, an old fashioned wooden thing, creaked ominously as he sat in it. He'd just gotten settled when Janos appeared in the doorway.

He was holding the day's mail--collected from Erik's mail slot downstairs--and placed it now on the desk before claiming one of the two chairs that faced Erik's desk. Aside from two bookshelves leaned against the far wall--both filled to capacity--there was no other furniture in the room. Erik kept the space utilitarian--he was probably the only professor in the department whose office wasn't littered with personal accoutrements.

"Is everything all right?" Janos asked. Janos didn't say much, but when he did it was as though each word was carefully selected, designed to do the least damage possible. Janos was acutely aware of the power of language. It was one of the reasons Erik had taken him on as a graduate student.

"Just some bad news," Erik said, flipping through his mail. A powder blue envelope from the department drew his attention. Undoubtedly this was the invitation Xavier was talking about.

Janos, who was still watching Erik, nodded sagely. "Is there anything I can do?"

Erik considered. He hated to ask, Janos not particularly fond of lecturing, but it was either that or cancel his afternoon class. Erik didn't think he was in any condition to teach just now.

"Can you teach my Critical Methods course this afternoon?" he asked.

Janos nodded, not at all perturbed by the request. Erik had done a lot for Janos, and hadn't asked anything in return, so Erik knew there weren't many favours Janos would refuse. Still, he nodded his thanks.

"I'm going to head home then," he said, still toying with the envelope. Janos took this for what it was--a bid for privacy. He rose quickly and slipped from the room.

Erik waited until he had left to open the envelope. He slid out the invitation and stared at it. Despite expecting it, it was still startling to see Sebastian Shaw's name in bold blue lettering.

[ ](http://www.nekosmuse.com/gala.jpg)

Erik reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his blackberry.

If Angel was surprised by Erik's call, she didn't comment. She also didn't seem surprised when Erik asked about bumping up his appointment with Dr. Frost. Dr. Frost, Erik knew, would undoubtedly be shocked--Erik wasn't one to take initiatives, but he was fairly certain this was what she had meant when she'd told him, not long after their first appointment, to call if an emergency cropped up. He was fairly certain this qualified.

Dr. Frost wouldn't be the first therapist he'd told about Shaw--Erik had told several over the years. It was one of the reasons he kept going--aside from Raven's piece of mind that was--because in those early days, after Erik had put together his role in Sebastian's life and Sebastian's role in his, talking about it with someone not connected to the incident had genuinely helped. It had certainly put things into context.

Erik felt like he needed some of that context now.

Angel, who'd put Erik on hold in order to check Dr. Frost's schedule, came back on the line.

"Can you make in within the hour?" she asked. He could almost picture her, checking with Dr. Frost, Dr. Frost's eyes growing wide as she told Angel to clear her schedule. Erik knew enough about people to know that Dr. Frost had been waiting for Erik to finally break down.

He wished there was an easier way. He really, really did.

Instead he told Angel he'd be there, then disconnected the line and reached for his coat. He was midway across town before it occurred to him that this might not be the best use of his time, or his money.

He'd had a psychologist in Heidelberg tell him once that his fixation--and she'd used the word fixation, even though Erik suspected she'd wanted to use obsession--with Shaw stemmed from having never fully processed his parents death. Erik supposed that was probably true, to some extent. He'd talked about their death with a few of his doctors--and he'd seen numerous, from psychiatrists to psychologists to counselors to therapists--but the incident always seemed to pale in comparison to Shaw, which, when Erik thought about it, probably said a lot about him.

He barely remembered his parents, and the few memories he did have were so disjointed that it was hard for Erik to piece together a narrative. It was simply easier to focus on his life after--which he remembered with vivid clarity--than to try to work out his life before.

Dr. Frost was waiting for him when he arrived at her office, her door open, Angel suspiciously absent from her desk, as though Dr. Frost had worried seeing her might have sent Erik running. Erik could have told her that wouldn't be the case--that when he decided to do something he did it. If there was one thing Erik wasn't, it was a coward.

"Erik, I'm glad to see you," Dr. Frost said as Erik entered the room. By force of habit, he closed the door behind him, and then crossed over to what he was beginning to consider his chair.

This time he slid out of his coat. Dr. Frost's expression didn't change, but her shock was still palpable. Erik didn't wait for her to speak. He handed across the invitation. She accepted it gingerly.

"You're not the first person I've seen, and so far no one's been able to help, but as I'm a little worried I may end up killing this man, I thought I'd at least give you a chance."

And that was why he was here, Erik realized, because a good number of his fantasies in recent years involved killing Sebastian Shaw. One fantasy in particular had him driving a coin through Shaw's head--an impossible feat, Erik knew, but nothing was impossible in the realm of the imagination. During their time together, Shaw had had a lucky coin he liked the roll across the backs of his fingers when lecturing. Erik had always found the sight hypnotic. As it turned out, he wasn't the only boy to think so.

Shaw wasn't the only person he'd fantasized about killing. When he was younger, before he met Shaw, he used to imagine he'd find the man who'd ran his parents off the road and into the Rhine, causing their deaths--never mind that it was simply an accident, the roads icy. Erik had been in the car at the time--had escaped through an open window and swam the frigid waters to the shore. He'd waited for hours, expecting his parents to re-emerge from the murky river. There were whole months after that event that Erik still couldn't remember. Mostly he blamed that on the resulting hypothermia.

Dr. Frost didn't know about his parents.

Dr. Frost, who had read the invitation, set it down on the desk in front of her. She laced her fingers together and gave Erik a searching look.

"Tell me how you know Professor Shaw," she coached.

Erik leaned back in his chair and released a breath. He hadn't realized he'd been holding it.

"He was my teacher. I was seventeen when he began a sexual relationship with me," he said, sounding detached even to his own ears.

Dr. Frost, who was undoubtedly expecting Erik's usual avoidance, appeared momentarily startled. She mastered herself.

"You were in high school," she said. Erik shook his head.

"They are gymnasiums in Germany, but I had already started university. Most people don't start until they are nineteen or twenty, but I had completed my Abitur early. He introduced me to English poetry."

Before that, Erik had had little interest in the subject. The poems he'd written in his youth, things he hadn't realized were poetry until much, much later--at the time he'd only needed a space of his own, and a found notebook had suited his purpose--were all in German. Shaw had introduced him to the thrill of manipulating a new language.

"How long did this relationship last?" Dr. Frost asked. Erik thought she sounded more hesitant than usual.

"Until I was accepted to Oxford for my graduate studies." Erik had thought, naively at the time, that he would go to England and finish his PhD, and then returned to Germany and Shaw, that together they would carve out a life. "I found him in his office with another boy, one of his first year students. He asked me if I really thought he'd wait for me."

He'd laughed then, a patronizing sound that Erik had heard before and brushed off as simply one of Sebastian's quirks. In that moment, he'd heard it for what it was.

She didn't ask him how that made him feel--he'd had a few people do that, and on every occasion Erik had stood and left the room, never to return. Instead she looked him directly in the eye and said, "Your anger is justified."

And of course Erik knew that, but to know it and to hear it were two different things. Tension Erik hadn't been fully aware he was carrying eased, his chest feeling lighter. He nodded.

"That does not mean killing him is justified," Dr. Frost continued, and Erik knew this too--it was why he was here, after all. "I don't know how German law works, but here in the U.S., you would have legal recourse against this man."

Erik shook his head. She wasn't the first to urge him take this to the authorities, or at least the university, and she probably wouldn't be the last. She was probably right--it was probably the best thing to do--but Erik couldn't conceive stepping forward and making the admission. The entire thing still filled him with shame.

Dr. Frost continued, "It's your choice, and no one will force you to do anything. You should know, however, that what he did was wrong. You have no blame in any of it."

 _No_ , thought Erik, _but that doesn't mean I am blameless._

~*~

Charles drummed his fingers against the counter top as he waited, phone cradled between his ear and his neck. Across the room, Hank was bent over a microscope.

"Hello, yes," he said when the line reconnected, Charles straightening with sudden eagerness. This was the sixth place he'd called, and the first that thought they might have what Charles was looking for.

"I have two periodicals that include the works of Erik Lehnsherr," the woman on the other end of the line said. Charles broke out into what he was sure was a ridiculous looking grin.

"Can you put them aside for me? I'll come pick them up this later this afternoon. I can even give you my credit card number to hold them if you like."

Charles was vaguely aware that Hank was watching him now, frown pulling at his mouth. He'd been keen to get started when Charles had turned up this morning, but instead of working, Charles had spent the bulk of his time calling independent bookstores in a bid to find more of Erik's work. He offered Hank an apologetic smile.

He'd met Hank during their undergraduate years, Hank Charles' first lab partner, and if he was honest, his first friend. They'd kept in touch during their graduate years, despite attending different institutions. Mostly they'd bounced ideas off each other over email. Charles had gotten Hank his research position with Columbia. He was easily Charles' favourite person to work with. He also knew Charles well enough to forgive him the occasional indiscretion. Besides, unlike most of the departments research team, Charles had spent the better part of the summer locked in the lab.

The woman on the other end of the line waved off Charles' offer to pay over the phone, saying she'd put the periodicals aside. Charles was more than a little giddy when he got off the line, even knowing he was going to have to truck down to the lower east side to find St. Mark's. It would be worth it, though, the journals including three poems Charles had yet to read.

"Sorry about that," Charles said when he made it back over to where Hank was working.

"Not that I haven't seen this before, but what exactly is it about this guy?"

Charles laughed. Hank was right in saying it had happened before, though not as often as people might assume. Most of Charles' pursuits lasted a night, ending the next morning after a very nice lay. Only a handful of people had earned the full force of Charles' attention. Erik was the first person to thoroughly attract his attention in a very long time--although, if Charles were honest, had Erik slept with him that first day, he'd probably have ended up just another one night stand. If there was one thing Charles appreciated, it was a challenge.

"I can't figure him out," he said, shrugging. It was about as honest as he could be. Hank shook his head.

"Have you tried just asking him out?"

It figured Hank would be on Moira's side. Sometimes the man was too pragmatic for his own good.

"It's a little hard to do when the only time I see him is in class," Charles confessed. As he spoke, he crossed to the sequencer to retrieve his completed chromatogram. When he turned back, Hank was frowning again.

"You're attending this guy's lectures? No, wait, never mind, I don't want to know." Hank paused. "Seriously, though, you can't figure him out? Surely it's more than that. I haven't seen you like this... well, ever, actually."

Charles leaned a hip on the counter. He considered the question. "He's gorgeous, and he gets really passionate when he lectures--he talks with his hands and says _yes, yes_ when someone gets something right, like he's having an orgasm, and..."

"Stop. Please stop. I'm sorry I asked," Hank interjected. Charles stopped. It was an amusing sight, Hank having turned bright red. Charles had forgotten how much Hank hated hearing about his conquests--or potential conquests for that matter.

"Look, why don't you just find out when his office hours are?" Hank asked. He'd turned back to his microscope and was determinedly not looking in Charles direction.

Charles froze. "Office hours? Oh, Hank, you are brilliant. I could kiss you."

Hank shot up so fast at that he almost tripped over the stool he was sitting on. His expression, stuck somewhere between embarrassment and horror, grew conciliatory as he lifted his hands in a defensive gesture. "Please don't," he said, taking a stumbling step back. Charles laughed.

"I will refrain from molesting you on one condition." Hank arched an eyebrow. "Loan me your car?" Charles hated public transportation--avoided it whenever possible--something he suspected was entirely his mother's doing, but try as he might, he couldn't get past his distaste for it. It was a mark of his willpower--that and the complete lack of parking around his building--that he hadn't caved and bought a car.

There were few people who could resist Charles' most beseeching look, but unfortunately Hank was one of them. Still, Charles had to try, so he let his eyes grow wide, his eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly, even as the corners of his mouth turned down into a pout. He'd mastered the look when he was six; had used it numerous times to manipulate maids and nannies into doing his bidding--sadly, his mother had shared Hanks' immunity.

Hank rolled his eyes, shaking his head in what Charles hoped was fond exasperation.

"I'm not loaning you my car because you did your puppy dog eyes thing. I'm loaning you my car because it'll get you across town faster, and that means you'll get back faster, and then maybe we can get some actual work done tonight. Also, I have a condition."

Charles cocked his head.

"When you're finished wooing this guy, never, ever tell me about your sex life," Hank said, digging into his pocket to hand over a set of keys.

Charles accepted them graciously, slipping them into his lab coat pocket before turning back to his work.

~*~

Erik could spend the rest of his life in New York without ever growing used to having a doorman. His very existence made Erik feel awkward--Erik always reaching for the door a moment before it opened, the doorman stepping outside to wave Erik in. He rarely spoke--except to Raven, and then only because Raven seemed to think he was their own personal concierge and did things like ask after the best restaurants and bakeries. Once, she'd asked him to recommend a good butcher, and then had lectured the man for twenty minutes on the benefit of protein when he'd announced he was a vegan.

The doorman smiled at Erik now, the kind of fake, plastered on smile that likely came with the job. Erik nodded in his direction, and then headed to the elevator.

He was feeling particularly wrung out from his session with Dr. Frost, and wanted little more than to curl up in bed and sleep. He suspected that was probably a bad idea--it was barely mid-afternoon--so instead he began contemplating what to make for dinner. It wasn't often he got home early enough to cook a nice meal.

He was expecting to find Raven at home, but the apartment was empty. Erik did a quick sweep, searching all of Raven's hiding spots--and she still sometimes climbed into her closet, or hid under her bed--but didn't find her anywhere. Raven didn't work, and didn't tend to go out much during the day--didn't tend to go out much period, at least, not without Erik. He tried to remember if today was one of her shrink days, as she liked to call them, but didn't think so. Hers were Tuesdays and Fridays, Erik recalled.

He found his answer in the form of a note left on the kitchen counter, Raven's sprawling hand as familiar as his own.

[ ](http://www.nekosmuse.com/Notepad.jpg)

Erik frowned at the notebook. He wasn't sure what to make of it. He tried to recall where he had heard the name Hellfire before, remembering then a club they'd passed the other night, not four blocks from here. Raven had an interview? At a club?

He tried to picture Raven working at a club, serving drinks or clearing tables, drunken men grabbing at her, trying to fondle her as she worked. The image filled him with rage. Raven had had enough of drunken men during their childhood.

He wasn't really thinking clearly when he tossed his coat onto the couch and headed back downstairs. The doorman didn't even blink at him on his way out--that was the way of doorman; they welcomed you home and ignored your leaving.

The Hellfire Club, from what Erik remembered, was in the East Village. Erik pulled out his blackberry as he walked and did a quick web search--or at least, he tried to do a quick web search, but he still didn't really know how to use his phone, never mind that Erik tried his hardest to avoid the internet whenever possible. Hell, he still did most of his writing by hand.

Eventually he found what he was looking for, following Google maps until he was standing out in front of the place. From the outside, it looked like the kind of place that employed bouncers and used them on a regular basis. Erik felt his hackles rise.

The club was obviously closed for business, but the front door was unlocked, so Erik headed inside. He wasn't a complete stranger to clubs, though he didn't tend to frequent them himself. Still, there was something inherently ugly about seeing a club fully lit by the light of day. What was meant to be mysterious and trendy under neon light now looked worn and lackluster. There were stains places Erik didn't think were meant to have stains.

It took him all of five seconds to spot Raven.

She was standing at the bar, sat atop a stool, talking to a tall, broad-shouldered man who was laughing at something she'd said. As soon as Erik entered the room, their conversation broke off, both of them swiveling to stare in his direction. Erik bared his teeth.

He was across the room and gripping Raven's elbow before he fully realized what he was doing.

"You can wait over there, da," the man said. Erik ignored him.

"You are absolutely not getting a job here," he told Raven. "And you are certainly not working for some Russian."

The man, who had obviously clued in that Erik was there for Raven and not a job interview, laughed.

"Your boyfriend, he is the clingy type. Dat is not so good, but he is cute, so provided he keeps his mouth shut, we can comp him," he said. Erik glared at the man.

"She is my sister, and she is not working here."

He'd explained to Raven, shortly after they'd arrived in New York, that she could take her time finding a job, that he didn't mind footing the bills until she found something safe and fulfilling. He had never expected Raven to pull her weight--never considered that she didn't, especially given everything she did for them--but it was something she worried about frequently, so he knew what was driving her.

"Erik," Raven said, speaking for the first time since his arrival. The shocked confusion that had coloured her features upon his arrival had cleared. Now she only looked mad. There was clear warning in her tone.

"What?" he asked.

She glared at him, and then smiled apologetically at the man. "Can you give us a minute?" she asked. The man, still looking amused, nodded. Raven shook off Erik's hand, hopped off her stool, and then dragged Erik to the end of the bar. Erik went, though only because he didn't want to have to start a fight, and there was a better chance of getting Raven out of there if they could talk privately.

"You don't have to..." he started, but Raven overrode him.

"First off, I'm not working for a Russian? What the hell kind of bigot are you?" She didn't wait for a reply, which was probably good, because Erik didn't have one. He didn't really have anything against Russians, save perhaps that his parents had died in 1986, and three years later, after the wall fell, Erik was so lost to the system that no one bothered tracking down the family he had living in the east. It was a strange thing, to have something so fleeting as politics set the course of one's entire adolescence.

"Second, this is a perfectly decent establishment, and it pays well, and unlike you, I don't want to spend all my time moping in our apartment."

"Raven," Erik tried, holding up his hands when it looked like she might ignore him. "I'm just worried you might get taken advantage of. I want you to be safe."

The look Raven shot him was so incredulous Erik found himself frowning. He tracked back over what he'd said, but still couldn't find any fault with it. Raven sighed.

"You do realize this is a _gay_ club, right? Pretty sure the clientele aren't going to try taking advantage. In fact, of all the places I could work, this might be about perfect. So now, if you'll excuse me, Azazel over there was in the middle of offering me a job, which I am going to accept."

She didn't wait for a reply, Erik watching as she crossed back to Azazel's side and extended her hand. Erik stuck around long enough to hear something about getting one of the go-go boys--whom Azazel called Pyro, mentioning something about some fantastic pyrotechnic display involving his penis--to give her a tour.

There was really little else to do save slink out the way he'd come.

He wandered around for a bit after that, mostly because he wasn't entirely sure what to do with himself--he could always head back home, but if he stayed in the neighbourhood long enough, he could probably catch Raven on her way out and they could walk back together. He found himself in need of coffee, so he went in search of a cup, finding one at a street-side vendor's cart, Erik having never been too particular about his caffeine.

He was taking his first sip when he happened to glance up and catch sight of a familiar figure. For a moment he was too stunned to do anything but stare, Charles Xavier the last person he'd expected to see. He was coming out of a bookstore, paper bag clutched in his hand--and Erik knew the store, shopped there often, because they always had the best selection of rare texts. Xavier turned--away from Erik--and before Erik quite knew what he was doing he was following.

Xavier was obviously heading somewhere with a purpose--and God, he walked down the streets of New York like he did the halls of the school, like he owned every inch of space, like the city existed for him alone. Erik had never seen such confidence in anyone before, let alone a student. By all rights, Xavier should still be figuring himself out, exploring what made him tick, uncertain what he liked or didn't like. Certainly Erik still felt that way. But Xavier seemed so put together, like he was the master of his domain.

Erik couldn't help but be a little bit impressed.

At the same time it was oddly alarming, because the only other person Erik had met who exuded such charisma was Shaw, and Erik didn't particularly like the comparison. Certainly Xavier was nothing like Shaw, but he wore his skin with the same confidence.

At the corner, Xavier paused. Erik, overwhelmed by a sudden surge of panic, found himself ducking behind a bus shelter--stupid thing to do, considering they were made almost entirely of glass. A litany of _what the hell am I doing?_ ran through his head even as his heart stuttered in his chest. Was he really stalking one of his students? What the hell was wrong with him?

Clearly he should have brought Xavier up with Dr. Frost.

Possibly it was a good topic for next week--although, Erik was starting to see why Raven saw her therapist twice a week.

It wasn't even a little bit surprising to glance up and find Xavier staring at him, eyes wide, a soft smile playing across his face. Erik cursed under his breath, debating whether to acknowledge Xavier or simply take off running--he really, really wanted to run. Instead he remained frozen where he was, watching as Xavier closed the distance between them.

"Are you following me?" Xavier asked when he got to Erik's side. He sounded more than a little delighted. Erik wasn't entirely certain what to make of that.

"Um..." There were a dozen ways he could answer that, but he suspected Xavier would probably see through any lie Erik managed to cobble together. In lieu of answering, he settled on shrugging.

Xavier beamed at him. It was a really good look on the kid.

"In that case, you can at least buy me a coffee," he said.

And this was not good--this was really not good, because not only did Erik _want_ to buy him a coffee, but he rather wanted to invite Xavier home with him. There was something about seeing him on the street, outside of a school setting, that made Erik realize just how many years Xavier had on his classmates. Here Xavier didn't look like the kind of person Erik might take advantage of--he looked like the kind of person who might take advantage of Erik.

"I can't," Erik said, although it took a good deal of effort to do so. "I'm waiting on my sister, and then we have plans."

The urge to run was back again, though mostly because Xavier's expression had turned crestfallen and Erik wanted to do everything in his power to change it. He was really not used to reacting to people this way. It just didn't happen.

"Well, some other time then," Xavier said, still sounding disappointed. He glanced over his shoulder. "You know, this is the second time I've seen you in this end of town. You must live nearby."

"A couple of blocks," Erik said without really thinking about it. No matter how much his conscience shouted at him, there was something intrinsically easy about talking to Xavier. Erik couldn't bring himself to end the conversation.

At least he managed to stop himself from asking if Xavier lived in the neighbourhood as well--it stood to reason, given that they kept bumping into one another--but it was really none of his business where his students lived. Xavier, who seemed poised to ask another question--or perhaps lead their strangely not awkward conversation in a new direction--started suddenly, and it took Erik a few seconds to realize it was because someone had called Erik's name.

Erik glanced over his shoulder, spotting Raven who looked equal parts exasperated and delighted. She'd reached Erik's side before she registered Xavier's presence.

"Oh, it's the cute guy," she said, smiling.

For perhaps the first time in Erik's life, he rather wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Instead he cut off anything Xavier might have said--or worse, anything Raven might have said.

"Well, we should get going then. I'll see you on Wednesday, Mr. Xavier," he said, ignoring Xavier's startled confusion, along with Raven's indignant yelp when he grabbed her arm and started pulling her in the opposite direction from where Xavier had been walking.

Erik very purposely didn't look back, even after Xavier called out, "Wednesday, then," like they'd just arranged a date.

Judging from Raven's smirk, it was fairly obvious she thought the same.


	7. Chapter 7

"He was following me. That has to mean something."

Charles sat, feet reclined on Moira's glass-top coffee table, a glass of white wine balanced precariously on the armrest of her sofa--he would have preferred red, but white was what Moira had offered, and Charles was nothing if not a amenable guest.

"It means he was made for you. Congratulations, Charles, you've finally found your soul mate," Moira replied, lifting her glass in a mock toast. Charles glared at her.

"It's not funny. This man is quite possibly the most perfect and yet infuriating person I have ever met. I'm certain he's interested, but something is holding him back." Charles let his head thump back on the couch, bouncing slightly in the process. His wine glass wobbled threateningly. Charles reached for it, swirling the wine in the glass before bringing it to his lips.

They'd chosen Moira's apartment tonight, even though she lived all the way down in Alphabet City. She hated Charles' apartment--complained loudly that the only place to sit was Charles' bed and she didn't trust that he washed his sheets as often as he had people between them, never mind that it had been months since Charles had last used his bed for anything aside from sleeping.

"Maybe he's married," Moira said.

She was sprawled across the sofa's matching loveseat, feet propped on the armrest opposite. It had been entirely too long since they'd last hung out, just the two of them, so when she'd offered--Charles neck deep in cultures and isolated DNA strands--Charles had been more than happy to accept.

"Maybe," she continued, "he has a wife back in Germany."

Charles sat up at that, wine glass halfway to his mouth. He frowned. "No, that can't be right. I've met his sister, and she seemed genuinely interested in us hooking up. Why would she do that if Erik was already married?"

Moira conceded the point with a nod. "Maybe he's just gotten out of a really bad relationship and he's not ready to start dating yet."

That was a distinct possibility. Certainly the poems Charles had just read--six times already--suggested as much. They were filled with such agony, such heartbreak, that it was hard to imagine anyone surviving the emotion. Charles might have fallen a little bit in love upon reading them.

But, if that were the case Charles could be patient--well, he could try to be patient. If Erik needed time, then Charles could give him time. It would help if Erik simply said as much. This guessing game was driving Charles crazy.

"Maybe he thinks you're a student," Moira continued, gesturing to Charles' general attire, as if it made the point for her.

Charles shook his head. "That's ridiculous," he said, brushing off the suggestion as absurd. Unfortunately, Moira wasn't done yet.

"Or maybe," she was on a roll now, more than a little drunk off their shared bottle of wine, "he's HIV positive."

Charles made a face, even as he drained the rest of his wine. "What difference would that make? They make condoms for a reason."

Moira didn't appear to have anything to say to that, so Charles pushed himself out of her sofa--an overstuffed monstrosity of a thing that Charles tended to get lost in more often than not. It wasn't that he didn't like it--Charles liked everything about Moira's apartment, the place as quaint as it was stylish, Moira having completely redecorated after she'd inherited the rent control from her grandmother--but he was feeling a little light headed and that meant everything he did seemed to take twice the effort.

He freed himself with some degree of difficulty, and then crossed to the floating island that separated Moira's kitchen from her living room. There was a second bottle of wine sitting on the counter. He lifted it up and turned back to Moira, raising an eyebrow.

"Go ahead," she said.

Charles wasn't much of a drinker; at least, not anymore--he'd had the tendency to go overboard during his younger years, but then again, what undergraduate didn't? Moira was just as much a lightweight.

They'd split the last bottle along with late night take-out, Charles reading Erik's poetry aloud while Moira burst into spontaneous, drunken tears-- _Oh, Charles, marry that boy_ , she'd said. He suspected they'd get half way through this bottle before she passed out. Charles wasn't far behind.

"I can't believe you buy screw top wine," Charles said. It didn't seem to matter how removed he was from his family, if there was one thing Sharon Xavier had instilled in him, it was an appreciation for fine wine. Moira wouldn't have known fine wine if it bit her on the ass.

Charles twisted off the cap, wincing as he did so, and then carried the bottle over to Moira, where he refilled her glass. He filled his and then set the bottle on the coffee table between them. He eyed the couch warily, and then chose to sit cross-legged on the floor.

"Out of curiosity," Moira said, "have you even asked him out? Directly, I mean; none of your round-about B.S.."

Charles thought about that for a minute. He'd certainly hinted, and he'd offered Erik the opportunity to ask Charles out, but he supposed he hadn't officially put it to a question.

"Because, you know," Moira continued, "he is German, and maybe your English subtlety isn't coming across. He might not know you're interested."

Charles supposed it was possible, although he couldn't really see how he could be any clearer on the subject--aside from throwing himself at Erik that was, which Charles was getting desperate enough to do at this point. Still, Moira had a point; one that was certainly worth exploring.

"How much do you love me, Moira?" Charles asked, mastering his most pleading expression.

"Barely, Charles, so don't bother with the puppy dog eyes. What do you want?"

Moira could be unshakable at times. He should have known better than to play games with her. Charles opted for blunt honesty.

"You have me scheduled to lab mentor Dr. Ashnar's Somatic Mutations seminar tomorrow, which just so happens to coincide with Erik's office hours. If someone were to fill in for me, I could go see him and clear all this up."

Moira's expression shifted to one of frank disbelief. Charles tried offering a smile, but it came out more apologetic than he intended. He knew she hated it when he took the passive aggressive route.

"Charles, you are utterly impossible," Moira finally said. She finished the last of her wine and set the glass down on the table with a resounding clink. "I will cover the first half of your lab--enough time for you to go and see Erik, ask him out, and then promptly get your ass to Hammer for the second half of your lab. Do we understand each other?"

Charles couldn't help the wide grin that spread across his face. The wine had started him on the path to warm and fuzzy--Moira's sacrifice pushed him the rest of the way over. He gazed at her, blinking sleepily--if he thought himself capable of moving, he would have crawled to her couch and wrapped her in a hug. If Charles could have anyone for a sister--and he had wanted one so bad growing up--it would be Moira.

"On that note, we ought to get you to bed, before you pass out on my floor. Come on, you can crash in my guest--just, please do me the favour of not masturbating on my sheets."

Charles, who was in the process of standing, made a face. "Thank you for that," he said, wobbling slightly as he got himself to his feet. Because really, it was only that one time, and he'd had far more to drink that night than tonight. Tonight he was more likely to vomit on her sheets--wine didn't tend to agree with him for long.

Moira shook her head. She stood on equally shaky legs and gestured Charles towards the hall. This wouldn't be the first time Charles had crashed in Moira's spare, but it was the first time in longer than Charles could remember. It was with a strange sense of nostalgia that Charles collapsed on top of the made bed, the scent of potpourri reaching his nose, and turning his stomach.

"Goodnight, Charles," Moira said from the doorway, pulling the door shut. Charles grunted something that was meant to be affirmation, and then promptly fell asleep.

~*~

"I like it when you cook," Raven said, clearing their plates and loading them into the dishwasher. She was the only one who used it, Erik always mistaking it for a washing machine--it was seriously bizarre the places Americans thought to tuck away washing machines--and besides, he preferred doing dishes by hand.

"That's only because my cooking doesn't involve the fire department," Erik said, but the joke fell flat, Erik's mood too strained for levity.

He was feeling... confused was probably the best word. The day felt exceedingly long. He could barely remember his morning class--learning about Shaw's impending arrival seemed a lifetime ago. He was already skirting the edge of a headache.

The problem was he had no idea what to address first. Raven had already put a halt to any discussion they might have had on her impending job, and Erik had spent too much time talking about Shaw today, and Xavier... Where did he even start with Xavier?

Raven, who knew him so well, put a hand on his shoulder. Erik glanced up, only then realizing that she'd already finished the cleaning up. Erik offered her a pained smile.

"What's going on with you?" she asked. Erik shook his head.

"I don't like the idea of you working in a club," he said, and he didn't, even if it was only the tip of today's iceberg. Gay club or no gay club, Raven could still get taken advantage of. Erik suspected she wasn't particularly interested in his overprotective brother routine tonight, though, so he didn't say anything else.

Raven was shaking her head, even as she grabbed his hand and pulled him from his stool. She led him away from the breakfast bar and into the living room, where she curled into his side as soon as they were seated on the couch, tucking her feet beneath her.

"This isn't about my new job--which I'm keeping by the way. I think it's about that guy. Am I right?"

Trust Raven to get right to the heart of the matter. Erik was tempted to lie--tempted to tell her about Shaw in a bid to change the subject, but that wasn't something he wanted to discuss either.

"He's just... stuck, you know?" There was really no other way to put it. He felt like a broken record, his thoughts constantly coming back to Xavier--to the soft porcelain of his skin and the vibrant blue of his eyes. Erik could close his eyes and recount everything Xavier had said in class this morning; could recall with vivid detail the way Wordsworth had flowed past his too red lips.

Which was ridiculous; Erik had no idea how Xavier had the power to supplant every other thought Erik had. This afternoon he'd been certain his world was imploding. Between learning that Shaw was coming to Columbia--and subsequently having to relive all the gritty details of their affair with Dr. Frost--and his worry over Raven, Erik shouldn't have had room left for anything else. But then he'd bumped into Xavier, and both Raven and Shaw had floated away, Erik left with nothing but the image of Xavier, wearing only a collared shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, brown paper bag tucked under his arm.

"Oh, Erik. Du bist ein dummkopf. Why don't you just ask him out? Clearly he's interested," Raven said.

Erik snorted. If only it were that simple. In the years since Shaw, Erik had been out a handful of dates, none of them resolving into an actual relationship. He'd slept with four people in the last decade or so, none within the last three years. For the first time since Shaw, Erik found himself genuinely interested in someone, and he was off limits.

"I can't," he said.

Raven shifted, pulling away so that she could look him in the eye.

"Why the hell not?" she asked.

"To begin with, he's a student."

That should have ended the conversation, but instead Raven's eyes lit up with excitement even as she bounded off the couch and disappeared down the hall. Erik watched, mildly confused, as she ducked into their shared office--although only Erik really used it as an office, Raven using it mostly to surf the internet, something Erik rarely, if ever, did.

When she returned, she was holding the policy book Columbia had included in his human resource package. She threw herself back down onto the couch, flipping the book open to a page she had clearly marked beforehand. Erik wondered how long she'd been waiting for this conversation.

"And I quote," she said, "Columbia University's educational mission is promoted by the professionalism in its faculty-student and staff-student relationships. Faculty and staff are cautioned that consensual romantic relationships with student members of the University community, while _not expressly prohibited_..." she trailed off, clearly thinking she'd made her point. When she glanced up from her reading, she was beaming.

"I thought I told you not to interfere," Erik said. Raven shook her head.

"No, you told me not to look him up, which I haven't. You didn't tell me I couldn't look up the school's policy."

Trust Raven to find a loophole in Erik's request. He sighed and plucked the book from her hands. The part that she'd left out was a strongly worded caution about said relationships, as well as a bid to check with individual departments regarding their policies, and a policy requiring professors to remove themselves from academic or professional decisions regarding the student.

"It doesn't matter," Erik said when he was done reading. He handed the booklet back to Raven. "It's still unethical. I can't."

He rather wished he'd sounded more convinced, because Raven shot him the same look she did whenever she was calling his bluff. Erik waved her off, not particularly wanting to examine the way his stomach had flipped when she'd said the words, _not expressly prohibited_. It was still out of the question, regardless of what the school had to say on the subject. For all he knew his relationship with Shaw had been sanctioned. It shouldn't have been. It should have been stopped long before it started. Erik wouldn't do that to anyone else. He couldn't.

"You know," Raven said, clearly not done with the subject. "There is a chance he won't be a student for long. He could be graduating this semester."

Erik wished she hadn't said it, a traitorous seed of hope growing in his belly. He shook the thought off.

"And there's a chance he only just started, and has at least four years left. Now can we please drop this?"

Raven conceded, although reluctantly. She leaned into his space and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I'm going to go to bed then," she said. "You can sit out here feeling sorry for yourself."

Erik let her leave, feeling the sudden urge to break out one of his notebooks. It had been months since he'd last felt the urge to commit words to paper. Perhaps doing so would help clear the tangle of his thoughts.

~*~

Charles woke the next morning still foggy from last night's wine, the pasty aftertaste of fermented grape on his tongue. He grunted, then pushed himself up onto his elbows and blinked at the floral pillow case covering his pillow.

Right, Moira's pillow, Charles registered, remembering where he was.

It was still early if the light coming in the window was any indication, so Charles rolled gingerly off the bed, getting his feet under him only through years of practice. He really, really didn't want to be awake just now.

A glance at the alarm clock Moira kept on the spare bedroom's nightstand told him it was shortly after 7:00. Erik's office hours, according to Kitty--whom Charles had had the fortune of bumping into on the way back from the bookshop yesterday--ran between 9:00 and 11:00 on Tuesday mornings. Charles' lab mentoring was supposed to start at 8:30.

Charles stumbled out of the room and down the hall, where he found Moira in the kitchen, holding a steaming mug of coffee. She took one look at him, shook her head and handed over the cup. Charles accepted it gratefully.

"Are you going to need a shower?" she asked. Charles shook his head.

"I'll stop at home. I don't particularly want to see Erik smelling like your girly shampoo."

He also wanted a change of clothes, the ones he was wearing wrinkled and stale with the scent of sleep. If he was going to do this--and that was still up in the air, because regardless of how many people Charles had dated, he had never directly asked someone out before--then he was going to do this right.

"Well, whenever you're ready, I can give you a lift back to your place, but then I have to go. Someone has me covering his lab mentoring today. I have to get in early so that I can get my own work done."

There was no malice in Moira's statement, but Charles still felt marginally guilty. Still, he knew why she was doing this. She'd told him once, not long ago, that she would never be able to thank him enough for introducing her to Sean. Helping Charles settle his love life seemed an even trade.

"We can go now," Charles said, taking too big a chug of too hot coffee. He sputtered a little, but managed to get it down.

Moira turned back to her cupboards and pulled out a travel mug. She handed it to Charles, waiting only long enough for him to transfer his coffee into it before leading them out the door.

One of the things that Charles loved about Moira's neighbourhood was that it felt like an oasis inside the city. Charles never had any doubts that he lived inside New York, but Moira could have lived in a quiet, sleepy town. Most of the buildings were pre-war, low rise tenements, and the streets were lined with row upon row of trees.

There were birds singing this morning, something Charles had never really paid attention to growing up, but missed now that he was mostly surrounded by concrete. Charles had spent a good deal of his childhood outside, roaming the grounds of the Xavier estate. He spent far too much of his time indoors now, locked away from everything that had made his childhood bearable.

Moira led them to the street, where her car--a practical, leaf green Prius--was parked. As she tossed her bags into the back, Charles emptied the front seat of file-folders so that he could sit down. Moira's car had always been an extension of her office.

Moira, who was quite possibly the most terrifying driver Charles had ever driven with, navigated Manhattan traffic like she was racing the Grand Prix. Charles was thankful for the travel mug--at the very least it kept him from spilling coffee all over the place. They made it to his apartment in record time--though the experience of getting there had undoubtedly taken ten years off Charles' life. Moira pulled to a stop outside his building.

"Good luck, and don't be late. I have an appointment at 10, so if you're not there, Dr. Ashnar is without a lab mentor," she said. Charles nodded.

"Thank you, Moira," he said, and then climbed out of the car. She had already disappeared from view by the time he reached his front door.

Charles' building was mostly inhabited by students, which meant on any given morning, before 10am, the place resembled a ghost town. Charles tiptoed up the stairs, well aware of the need he'd had for sleep during his student years.

His apartment still smelt a little like musty books, Charles having yet to return the cardboard box filled with his boarding school notes to storage. At least it didn't smell like dead mouse, he reasoned, already shucking his clothes as he crossed to the tiny washroom that sat opposite his front hall closet--which was in fact his apartment's only closet, Charles clothes warring with his coats for space.

It was nice to step under the hot spray of water--that was the great thing about Charles' apartment; the water was always hot, the pressure exactly perfect. On a day like today Charles could have spent hours letting the water pulse against his shoulders. He didn't have hours, but he did have enough time to take a leisurely shower, Charles taking his time lathering his hair, mentally going over exactly what he was going to say to Erik when he saw him.

He'd go on the pretense of returning his notes--minus the ones from Monday's lecture, which Charles had already tucked away in the bottom drawer of his dresser. Those he would keep, along with the other mementos Charles had accumulated over the years. School notes weren't the only things Charles was incapable of throwing away.

Once he got Erik talking, it would be a simple matter to ask him out.

"Erik, would you like to have dinner with me?" Charles asked the line of shampoo bottles on the ledge opposite. They didn't respond, but Charles could imagine a shy smile appearing on Erik's face.

He'd duck his head, maybe blush, and say, "Of course, I'd love to."

Charles would take him somewhere nice--somewhere they could find a quiet table and enjoy a glass of wine. Perhaps somewhere near Erik's apartment--Charles was dying to see it--and then after Erik would invite him back for coffee, and Charles would accept, but there wouldn't be any coffee, because as soon as they were in the door Erik would close it behind them and then press Charles against it. He'd move in for a kiss, but at the last minute change his trajectory, his lips meeting Charles' neck.

Charles would arch into the sensation, letting Erik mark him and bruise him as he fit their bodies together, rocking up into Charles until they set a steady pace, Erik rutting against him, Charles squirming to get closer.

In his fantasy, they'd get past that point--Erik would break away and pull him into the bedroom, push him down onto the bed and begin slowly stripping him of his clothes. In reality, the image of Erik dry humping him against the door was enough to send Charles over the edge. He came, his hand, slick with conditioner, wrapped around his cock.

 _Well_ , he thought, smiling a little, even as he slumped over and caught himself on the tile. He wondered briefly if this was something Erik did--jerked off in his shower thinking of Charles. He probably did, Charles decided. He probably felt a little guilty about it afterwards, Charles decided--not that he needed to be, but then, Charles knew he was far more open with his sexuality than most. Erik seemed a little... not repressed, but certainly a little more conservative than any of Charles' previous partners.

Charles was looking forward to getting him to open up a little.

Which wasn't going to happen unless he managed to make some progress in initiating a relationship, Charles reminded himself. He rinsed off, the water still blessedly hot. He'd never seen the building's hot water tank, but he imagined it large enough to fill an Olympic sized swimming pool--there was really no other explanation for why it, in a building full of students, had never run dry.

When he was clean and dried, he took his time finding something to wear, wanting to look at least a little fashionable--not something Charles had cared about before, but Erik always looked like he'd stepped off the cover of GQ and Charles rather felt he ought to step up his game.

He found an old graphic t-shirt from his PhD days and put it on, hoping it might make him look a little more hip than his usual tweed. He paired it with an open blazer and a pair of soft, dark blue jeans--he could just imagine the looks on his students faces this afternoon. When he was done, he eyed his reflection in the mirror, debating whether or not to shave. His scruff made him look a little bit older--not that Charles had ever looked old; he still got carded whenever he bought alcohol--but Erik always looked so tidy, so Charles took the ten extra minutes to shave it off.

A little aftershave, a quick brush of his hair--which had air dried in its usual waves--and Charles was out the door, a spring in his step as he crossed Morningside Park to reach the main campus. It was now close to 8:30.

He'd debated whether to arrive early, not wanting to appear overeager, but also not wanting to be forced to wait behind a line of actual students. Moira had rather made the decision for him, her window long enough to do what Charles needed to do, but not long enough for him to linger. Still, it was early enough that he had time to stop at Brownie's.

He considered buying Erik a coffee--Erik drank cappuccinos, made with whole milk, Charles had learned, having cleared Erik's empty cup from atop his podium yesterday morning. He couldn't decide if it was a nice gesture, or too forward, so he decided against it, purchasing only his usual latte and scone for breakfast. He ate the scone as he crossed to Philosophy Hall.

Erik's office was on the same floor as Scott's--though on the opposite side of the building. Even having a general idea of where it was it still took Charles some time to find it. To his surprise, the door was wide open, Erik bent over a notebook, pen moving furiously across the page. He was alone.

Charles paused outside the door, taking a moment to admire the lines of Erik's shoulders before bringing his knuckles up to wrap against the frame. Erik glanced up, startled.

His features softened, soft smile tugging at his lips in a way that made Charles' heart leap in his throat. He returned the smile, giddiness turning to confusion when Erik's expression shifted, becoming entirely neutral, as though he was fighting against his natural inclination and purposely setting up barriers between them.

The man was as confusing as he was desirable.

"Is this a bad time?" Charles asked, starting to question whether this was a good idea. The initial warmth of Erik's reaction, followed by this cautious, clearly intentional indifference, was making Charles rethink his plan.

"It's fine, Mr. Xavier. What can I help you with?"

Charles hesitated, fighting his doubts until he caught a hint of pleading in Erik's eyes. Whatever Erik was trying to do, he wanted Charles to come inside.

Charles stepped through the door and crossed to one of the chairs set up in front of Erik's desk.

"You know, you can call me Charles," he said, not quite certain why Erik always insisted on being so formal, unless... "I'm not sure how they do these things in Germany, but here it's perfectly acceptable for you to use my given name."

Erik blinked. He glanced down at the notebook still opened in front of him, seeming surprised to find it there. He closed it and slid it aside, well out of Charles' reach. Charles would have given anything to know what was written in it.

"Charles, then," he said, and the way he said Charles' name, like it was something utterly forbidden, twisted Charles' stomach into knots.

Erik didn't say anything else, continuing to stare across the desk like he wasn't quite certain what to make of Charles' visit. Charles cleared his throat.

"I just came by to apologize for yesterday. Morning, I mean," Charles said, slipping his messenger bag off his shoulder and placing it in his lap. He reached inside, careful not to let Erik see the periodicals and anthology he was carrying around, and pulled out Erik's cue cards. "Also, you left these behind," he said, handing them over.

Erik, who was still staring at Charles, accepted the cards. He flipped through them.

"Was this all of them? I could have sworn there were more," he said. It took all of Charles' willpower not to blush.

"Were there?" he asked. "I'm not sure." He made a show of searching his bag. "I could double check at home, see if they fell out."

Much to Charles' relief, Erik shook his head. He set the cards down on top of his notebook.

"I don't need them," he said. He seemed poised on the verge of saying something else, so Charles sat patiently and waited.

And waited. He'd just about decided to lead the conversation in a new direction, the silence between quickly stretching towards awkward, when Erik finally spoke.

"I should apologize too," he said, "for taking off like that. Both times." He smiled, a little crookedly, the gesture filled with so much awkwardness that the butterflies in Charles' stomach became angry hornets. "I wasn't expecting to hear Shaw's name."

"You know Shaw?" Charles asked, curious now.

Erik glanced up quickly at that, face draining of colour, expression turning to one of horror. Charles had never been particularly good at reading people, but it was easy to tell Erik hadn't meant to share that knowledge. Charles scrambled to defuse the sudden tension that pulled at Erik's shoulders.

"I'm taking it you're not a fan," Charles said, trying for levity. "Not that I blame you. I've always found Shaw's work quite shallow. If Wordsworth tells us that all good poetry is the externalization of internal emotions, then clearly we can't consider Shaw's work good poetry. He writes emotion as though his understanding of it is entirely text book. Reading his work, I would doubt he'd experienced a genuine emotion in his life. I have no idea how he ended a poet laureate."

Charles held his breath, waiting for Erik's reaction. He'd taken a gamble, sharing his true thoughts on Shaw's work--even if Erik disagreed, Charles could at least stand by his reasoning. He didn't think Erik would shun him simply because their opinions on poetry differed. There was, of course, a good chance Erik shared his views, Erik's expression enough to suggest that Erik, at the very least, disliked the man.

Erik, who had been watching Charles with wide eyes--looking rather like a startled deer--chuckled, the tension between them dissipating nicely.

"You'd hate my work, then," he said.

And that wasn't at all what Charles was aiming for, so he shook his head. "On the contrary, what I've read of your work highlights such startling vulnerability that it's clear you very much understand human emotion. You have marvelous insight into the human condition.

Erik blinked. Charles didn't miss the hint of pink that coloured his cheeks.

"You've read my work," he said, seeming equal parts flattered and embarrassed. Charles allowed his smile to turn seductive. This was going exceptionally well.

"A few pieces--they're not easy to find, you know."

Erik laughed at that--a nervous sound--even as he stood and crossed to one of the bookshelves lining the far wall. He pulled down a binder, flipped it open, scanned through it, closed it, and then handed it to Charles.

Charles' hand shook as he accepted it.

"There are a few in there that haven't seen publication," Erik said, seeming hesitant now. He wore awkwardness well, Charles thought.

"Thank you," Charles said, holding the binder to his chest. "I look forward to reading them."

Erik nodded, and Charles could tell he had grown uncomfortable enough that it was time to change the subject.

It didn't look like Erik was going to reclaim his seat, so Charles turned, pausing long enough to slip Erik's binder into his bag before he stood. Erik watched him, radiating uncertainty.

"I was wondering," Charles began, clearing his throat. Erik's expression was so open, so hopeful, that it bolstered Charles' confidence. "I was wondering if you wanted to grab dinner sometime."

And there, it was out; Charles had asked. He had half a second to feel excited before Erik's expression fell, his earlier ease vanishing, replaced by a look of such sorrow, such longing that Charles knew his answer even before he gave it.

"I'm sorry," he said, seeming at loss for words--not that they were necessary, Erik's rejection rather succinct.

"Right, sorry," Charles said, floundering then. He wanted to ask why--to demand an explanation, because Erik had just given Charles a book of his poetry, damn it--but he was too caught up in feeling embarrassed; too dejected to do anything save fumble with getting his bag over his shoulder. "I'll just..." he said once he had managed it, gesturing to the door. Erik stepped forward.

"Charles," and God, the way he said Charles' name, "I..." was as far as he got before a knock on Erik's doorframe startled them both. Charles had forgotten he hadn't closed the door.

It was a startling thing to glance over and find Scott standing in the doorway, glancing between them somewhat awkwardly, as though he'd only just then realized he was interrupting something. He held a file folder in his hand.

"Sorry," he said, glancing between them. He turned to Erik. "Sorry, Professor Lehnsherr, I just needed a few signatures." He glanced back to Charles.

"It's all right," Charles said, suddenly glad for the interruption. "I was just leaving." He spared one final glance at Erik, who looked miserable, before heading towards the door, brushing past Scott on the way out.

"Charles," Scott called after him, but Charles was already far enough away to pretend he hadn't heard.


	8. Chapter 8

It felt like someone had fastened a vice around his heart, and was slowly tightening it. Erik stared at Professor Summers where he stood, half poised inside the doorway, and struggled to breathe.

He'd wanted to explain. He'd wanted to tell Xavier--Charles, dear God, he'd called him Charles--that he consumed Erik's every waking thought. He wanted to explain why this couldn't be--to ask when Charles would graduate, because maybe then they would have a chance. For one brief, hysterical moment, he'd considered offering to leave the university--but where would he go, save back to Heidelberg, and then what? A long distance relationship with a man he barely knew?

Summers, whom Erik had only had the pleasure of meeting a handful of times--and who inspired absolutely nothing in Erik--was still standing in the doorway, file folders limp in his hands. He looked exceedingly awkward. Erik glared at him.

Summers had used Charles' name.

"How do you know him?" Erik asked. He didn't mean for the question to come out an accusation, but it did. Summers flinched.

It occurred to him then that perhaps this was simply the American way. Perhaps professors here were just friendly with their students. Perhaps Charles was not wrong in asking Erik to use his given name.

"Um," Summers said, shuffling awkwardly. "He's my ex."

Erik's eyes grew wide at that, mouth falling open. He felt the sudden urge to throttle Summers--wanted to dive across the room and wrap his hands around Summers' throat. Some of that must have shown on Erik's face, because Summers took a step back and raised his hands in a defensive gesture.

"It was a long time ago, and very, very much over. We're civil now, but we don't even really see each other all that often. I swear you have nothing to worry about."

Erik frowned at that, because that wasn't at all what had bothered Erik--and did Summers really think that Erik would do something like that? That Erik would take advantage of someone like that? Bad enough that Summers had--although Summers was a few years younger than him, so it was entirely possible he was a graduate student at the time. But even that was a little suspect, because Charles wouldn't have been far into his undergraduate studies and, dear god, was this just the sort of thing that happened? Had Erik completely blown his ordeal with Shaw out of proportion?

Erik felt his legs go a little rubbery. His vision swam. He gripped the edge of his bookshelf to keep from toppling over.

"Are you all right?" Summers asked, taking a step into Erik's office. All Erik could think was _get out, get out, get out_.

"I'm fine," Erik said. "And I'm not sleeping with Charles Xavier," he added, rather defiantly. This time it was Summers' eyes that widened.

"Okay. Sorry, I just meant, you know, if the two of you," here he made a gesture that Erik supposed was meant convey everything Summers had done with Charles--and God how it angered him--"it wouldn't be a problem. For any of us."

And what was Erik meant to say to that? Because it should have been a problem; it should have been a very large problem, and the fact that Summers didn't think it was--the fact that a department advisor was advising him to sleep with a student--sent bile inching its way up the back of Erik's throat. Was this why Charles was interested in him? Had Summers broken him like Shaw had broken Erik? He wanted to throw Summers out of his office--to pick him up and toss him out the window, have him land in the middle of Amsterdam Avenue traffic.

"What do you need me to sign?" he asked instead, letting his hostility bleed into his tone.

Summers hesitated, and then moved cautiously into the room, handing over the file folder he was carrying like Erik was a viper capable of attacking at any moment. Erik snatched it from his hand. Inside, he found several departmental documents. He brought them back to his desk, and then systematically signed them, one by one. When he was done, he crossed back to Summers' side and thrust the folder in his hand.

"Now get out," he said.

Summers shook his head. "Right," he said, already halfway out the door.

Erik was glad to see the back of him. He waited until Summers had vanished down the hall to cross back over to his desk--to sink into his chair and let his head fall onto the desk.

He wanted to go after Charles. He also wanted to let Charles go--thought it might even be better this way, a clean break exactly what Erik needed to get over this... crush, or infatuation, or whatever it was. Perhaps now they could move past this awkward flirtation and concentrate on a professional relationship. Charles was still one of his best students--even if his name didn't appear on any of Erik's official documentation. Erik admired Charles; he respected him. He shouldn't have been lusting after him to begin with.

Erik would do his job. He would help foster Charles' innate talent--and he had innate talent, Charles' capacity for critical analysis already well-honed. Erik wondered if he wrote his own poetry--found himself wanting to see it if he did. He could put aside these feelings and do what he was trained to do.

It was funny how making the decision only served to tighten the vice around his heart.

~*~

Moira knew--the second she laid eyes on him, she knew. Charles offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile, but knew it fell flat when she dragged him aside--mindless of stalling Dr. Ashnar's seminar--and asked if he wanted her to cancel her appointment.

"I'm fine. Go, I've got this," he said, ignoring Dr. Ashnar's glare. When Moira hesitated, he pushed her towards the door.

Charles wasn't a stranger to rejection. It happened more often than not--usually first thing in the morning, when regret reared its ugly head and sent Charles' bed partners running. In his younger years, Charles had had a habit of picking up would-be straight men incapable of facing their drunken homosexuality come morning. He'd had a few, too, who had turned down his advances--told him point blank to back off--but this marked the first time someone had let him get to the point of asking and then rejected him.

It hurt.

But it hurt more so because it was Erik--which was ridiculous, because, really, how well did he even know the man? Still, he liked Erik; genuinely liked Erik and Charles hadn't liked anyone in a really, really long time.

Dr. Ashnar's seminar seemed to go on forever, though if asked, Charles couldn't have repeated a word of it. He spent most of the time fumbling around, fetching Dr. Ashnar supplies and fielding questions, which he answered half-heartedly, wanting to be anywhere but where he was.

When the seminar was over, Dr. Ashnar harrumphed at him, glaring icily while Charles cleaned up after the departing students. Charles had a feeling he wouldn't be asked to mentor another of Ashnar's labs. Hell, given his recent distraction, he wouldn't be surprised if he lost his unofficial title as the department's golden boy.

It was fast approaching 11:00 by the time Charles got back to his office, where he found Moira waiting for him. She was sitting on Charles' couch--the one he'd bought second hand, exclusively for the purpose of napping on whenever a late night at the lab left him too tired to stumble home, something that happened more often than not. She was half buried in Charles' mess of pillows, munching on something from inside the white paper bag she held in her lap.

Charles' office was a chaotic mess of... well, mess. He kept it that way on purpose, mostly because it tended to scare people off and Charles rather liked keeping his office as his own personal sanctuary, but that wasn't the only reason. Once, in the height of a very busy week, his mother had turned up for a visit, Charles' office a mess simply because he hadn't had time to worry about it, and she'd been so horrified that she hadn't been back. Charles was rather keen to keep it that way.

"What happened?" Moira asked as soon as Charles stepped in the door. She offered chocolate dipped biscotti from inside the bag.

Charles glanced over his shoulder, and then pulled the door shut behind him. He dragged off his blazer and tossed it onto one of his chairs, then crossed the room and threw himself onto the couch at Moira's side. He snatched the biscotti from her hand.

"Hello to you, too," he said, but Moira merely rolled her eyes, so Charles knew there was no getting out of this. "I asked him to dinner. He said no. End of story."

Moira's expression softened, but Charles shook her off. He didn't particularly want her sympathy just now.

"I really thought... Do you know he gave me a book of his poetry? Right before, I mean. He just handed me this binder," Charles hadn't had time to read any of them yet, the binder a heavy weight in his messenger bag, "and then smiled at me like I was the love of his life, and then..." Charles gestured absently.

"I'm sorry," Moira said. She stood then and crossed to Charles' desk, leaning against it so that she could look him in the eye.

"It's fine. It's just..."

"You like him," Moira finished. Charles nodded.

"I actually thought he might be the one, you know," which was probably stupid, because Charles had never believed in fairy tales--certainly he didn't believe in soul mates or falling in love once and forever. Since meeting Erik, though, Charles was starting to want to believe in those things.

Moira was watching him, soft smile tugging at her mouth--and Charles couldn't even begin to figure out where it was coming from. He shot her a questioning look, and when she didn't explain, Charles narrowed his gaze.

"What?" he asked.

"You've grown up," Moira said. She sounded proud.

Charles shook his head, although he suspected she was probably right. Once upon a time he would have run screaming from a commitment, but now he was starting to think it might be nice; having someone who was entirely his; someone he could come home to night after night. He wanted that--wanted to build a life beyond his work and the occasional lay.

["I still made a complete fool of myself,"](http://www.nekosmuse.com/awesome.gif) he said, but try as he might to convince himself that that was the worst part, it really, really wasn't.

~*~

 _Raven Interlude_

She could do this, Raven decided, returning home from her first day of training--it had consisted mostly of a tour, a lecture on house rules (there weren't many) and instructions for mixing pretty much every drink under the sun. She was perfectly suited to doing this job--to doing any job, really. She was a chameleon, capable of adapting to any environment; of filling any role that required filling.

It was probably her only useful life skill--and that honed over years of trauma she didn't like to think of if she didn't have to.

More importantly, though, she wanted this job. She wanted to contribute to the household income--even if Erik made more than enough money for the both of them, and even if he'd never once made her feel any less for not working.

It was something her shrink had said--and Raven liked this one, thought she was making good progress under her care--something about needing to learn to stand on her own two feet, and she wasn't going to do that as long as she remained entirely dependent on Erik.

Who knew, maybe one of these days she'd get her own place, take a stab at being a real adult.

Not that she didn't love living with Erik--she loved everything about Erik, Erik the only person in her life who had ever cared, who had ever taken care of her. He was more like a father than a brother, and while she'd never tell him that, she wanted more than anything to make him proud.

If she got enough money together, she might even see about going to college. Erik would be so proud of her if she did. She'd study drama, and maybe someday see her name in lights on Broadway. It was the sort of thing she'd dreamed about doing as a child, a way to escape the everyday horror of her existence. There was something appealing about pretending to be someone else night after night.

Only Erik had made her childhood bearable--Erik, who brought her treats and blankets and then bundled her out of that house in the dead of the night just when she thought she couldn't live another day in that hell. She remembered so clearly that first apartment. Even today she still associated the scent of dank basements with happiness--with safety. Erik had bought her her first stuffed animal in that apartment. It still occupied a place of honour on her bed.

"I'm home," she called as she entered their shared apartment. She'd only been gone a few hours, but Erik hadn't been home when she'd left, and she knew he'd get back before she did. When he didn't answer, she grew instantly worried.

There was only once in their life Erik hadn't returned home. She'd waited, sitting cross-legged on the floor across from their door, body taut with tension as the hours ticked by. He'd arrived six hours late, and when he'd found her there, his face fell and he bundled her into his arms and cried into her shoulder.

That was the day that horrible man Sebastian had finally shown his true colours. Raven had seen it coming almost from the beginning.

She found Erik curled on the couch, looking almost as dejected--certainly he looked very much like that lost little boy who'd come home to her then, Raven for the first time feeling far older than her adopted older brother. Raven suspected it was only slumber which kept lines from his face, his body lax as he slept, breathing even and deep. She crouched down on the floor next to him.

"Oh, Erik," she said, brushing aside a lock of his hair. He didn't stir.

She knew what it was that plagued him, of course--she saw the way his eyes lit up whenever he talked about this Charles Xavier, even if it was only him sharing Charles' contribution to his lectures. Her brother was falling in love, and she couldn't for the life of her figure out why he continued to deny himself what his heart clearly wanted. It was taking all her willpower not to meddle. Erik had done so much for her, the least she could do was help push him towards what he really wanted.

There was little else for her to do save wait for Erik to wake up, so she twisted, sitting with her back pressed against the couch, Erik a warm weight behind her. When he woke, she'd suggest they order curry--she was craving something spicy, and she didn't think Erik would be up for cooking. Until then she sat, something on the coffee table catching her attention.

It was Erik's notebook--one of many, though he always bought the exact same kind, colour and everything. He always marked the year on the inside left corner of the cover. She flipped this one open and read _2011_. He was writing again. As far as Raven knew--and she liked to think she knew everything about Erik--he hadn't written in a very long time. Several years, in fact.

Erik kept no secrets from her, and she none from him--secrets, in Raven's world, were horrid, unbearable things, and she never wanted to have another one--so she snatched Erik's book off the table and let it fall open to the bookmarked page.

[ ](http://www.nekosmuse.com/erikspoem.html)

Raven read no more than the first few lines before she knew he was writing about Charles. The silly, ridiculous man, worrying over something as stupid as ethics when it came to matters of the heart. Raven had met Charles only twice, but she knew he was worth pursuing. There was something about him that inspired confidence, and considering how few people inspired that emotion in Raven, that pretty much meant he was perfect.

He also seemed genuinely interested in Erik. Why couldn't Erik see that? Why couldn't he push past whatever was stopping him and see what was right in front of him?

It was probably a stupid question to ask, because Raven knew what was stopping him. He was afraid of becoming Sebastian. Years ago, after he'd finished his PhD and begun teaching, he'd spent a year debating whether to leave the field, terrified that he might somehow destroy the very minds he was trying to sculpt.

Raven had thought it silly at the time--she could have told him he was nothing like Sebastian and never would be--but Erik had agonized over it daily throughout his entire time at Oxford, and then again when he'd begun teaching in earnest at Edinburgh.

There were days when Raven wished fervently that she could travel through time. She would go back and kill Sebastian before he ever set eyes on Erik. She had never felt more powerless than she had when Erik met the man. Erik had always kept her so safe, and she wasn't able to return the favour.

She flipped through the notebook, the marked page the only complete piece--more often than not Erik's work ended in angry scribbles and tears in the paper. A few pages had been torn out, a few more hastily taped back in. It was clear he was having a hard time focusing his feelings--and now Raven wondered if she was spending entirely too much time on her shrink's couch, using phrases like focusing his feelings. She shook her head.

"Did you like it? That last one, I mean," Erik asked.

Raven startled, having not realized that he'd woken. She glanced over her shoulder.

"It's sad," she said, breath catching at the hollowness she found in his eyes. She didn't have Erik's talent for analysing poetry. She could only express what it had made her feel. It had made her feel sad.

Erik didn't comment, instead saying, "He asked me out, you know. To dinner."

Raven knew, even without asking, that Erik had declined the invitation--he wouldn't have done anything else. She knew, too, that having had to do so had made him miserable.

"Did you even ask when he was due to graduate?" she asked.

Erik, who was in the process of struggling into a seated position, shook his head. She understood his reasoning. He wouldn't have wanted to promise Charles anything--wouldn't have wanted Charles to think he had to put his life on hold waiting for Erik.

"What if you just didn't have sex with him? I mean, date him, but don't have sex with him." She was grasping at straws now, but she would have done anything to cheer Erik up--to remove that haunted, bleak expression from his face.

It obviously worked, because Erik cracked a smile, chuckling slightly at the prospect.

"You're such an optimist," he said, which wasn't at all true--except where Erik was concerned. He leaned forward then and ruffled her hair, a familiar gesture from their childhood. Raven rolled her eyes.

"Then I guess I can be optimistic about the chances of you buying me dinner," she said, still craving that curry. Erik laughed, even as he nodded, Raven congratulating herself for at least distracting him from his misery.

It wasn't ideal, but it was a start.

~*~

Charles was still moping when he made it back to his office--had moped straight through teaching his Bioethics course, something at least two of his students had commented on. Hank would undoubtedly be expecting him--he'd sent three texts in the last hour alone, each completely unrelated to the last, Hank's thought patterns as random as they were brilliant. Charles wasn't particularly in the mood to dive into research, but considering how little work he'd been doing lately, he figured he ought to. Still, he wanted...

He had no idea what he wanted. He wanted to march back to Erik's office and demand an explanation. He wanted to ask why Erik had been leading him on--because reflecting back, it was clear that was exactly what Erik was doing--when he'd had no intentions of this going anywhere. It was entirely possible Charles was entering the anger stage of his rejection.

He still had Erik's poems--hadn't brought himself to read them yet, terrified of what he'd find. He was half afraid he'd find his answer, written right there in the open, the exact reason for Erik's reluctance in black and white, but more than that, he was terrified he'd find nothing; that reading Erik's work would yield absolutely no answers.

He'd set them aside before he'd left his office the first time--they still sat on the edge of his desk, beckoning him now. He had no idea why he felt the need to torture himself. He should have just slipped them in an envelope, unread, and shipped them back to Professor Lehnsherr in the English Department--just another package from one professor to another, commonplace in a school like Columbia.

He'd half convinced himself to read them when there was a knock on his door. He bolted upright, smoothing his hair even as he crossed to the door, but in place of Erik--and why he was expecting Erik of all people, he didn't know--Moira was standing on the other side of the door.

"Hey," she said, slipping into Charles' office when Charles stood aside to grant her entrance. She took her customary seat on his couch.

"You don't have to keep checking on me, you know," Charles said. He leaned against the back of his now closed door and gave her a pointed look. He'd grown up without the benefit of a mother; he didn't need one now.

"I know," Moira said, "but I was talking to Sean..."

"What?" Charles interrupted, pushing himself off the door and coming to stand in the middle of the room. "You talked to Sean about this?"

It wasn't that Charles didn't like Sean--he liked him very much--but the last thing he needed was this getting all over the school, and while Sean was hardly the gossiping type, the more people who knew about it the more likely that was to happen. He could just picture his students whispering behind his back. _Did you hear Professor Xavier got shot down by the visiting English professor?_ they'd say.

"I was talking to Sean," Moira said again, "because he's my S.O. and we share everything, and he suggested we go out this weekend. Perhaps to a club, where you can find a--and these are his words--hot bodied young guy to drag through your bed."

It was a typical male solution--get over a crush by finding a new one. Charles had done it before, and would undoubtedly do it again, but there was something about the thought of clubbing that left a sour taste in his mouth. Maybe Moira was right; maybe he really was growing up.

"Come on, Charles. It might do you some good, and I'll even let you drag us to Hellfire."

Charles paled at that, because the last time he'd gone to Hellfire... Actually, it had been a pretty good night, and he'd scored enough phone numbers to last him two months.

"Fine," he conceded, "but if I get drunk and end up hitting on one of my students, I'm holding you responsible for it."

That probably wasn't entirely fair, because the one and only time that had happened was at Pride, and the kid in question had been dressed in drag at the time. Charles hadn't recognized him until he'd grinned and said, "I live just around the corner, Professor," after which Charles had blanched, stammered an apology, and took off running. He'd never felt so embarrassed in his life. He hadn't been able to look at the kid in the eye for weeks after it had happened.

"I will do my utmost to steer you towards the twenty-five and older crowd," Moira promised, raising her hand in a pledge.

Charles still wasn't looking forward to going--he would have preferred a quiet dinner with Erik, preferably someplace within walking distance of a bed--but Moira probably had a point. If Erik wasn't interested--and Charles was grudgingly starting to admit that he wasn't--then there was no use crying over spilled milk. There had to be someone in the city he hadn't already slept with.


	9. Chapter 9

For the first time in perhaps his entire career, Erik was early for a class.

He wasn't sure what he was hoping for--and okay, that was a lie, he knew exactly what he was hoping for. He was hoping Charles would show up early, too, maybe give Erik another chance to say yes--and he wanted to say yes; after a night of tossing and turning and regretting his decision he wanted to say yes.

Not that he could. It was one thing to idly fantasize about the possibility. It was another to actually go through with it; to violate every ethic he had set for himself. Still, he wanted...

To see Charles, he supposed. To know that their connection was still there--that it would maybe last the semester, and then Charles would tell him he wouldn't be back the next, that he was graduating, and Erik would offer his congratulations along with an invitation to dinner.

Erik had never been wanting for imagination.

It was strange to stand at the front of an empty room. Erik tended to time his arrival until the very minute class started--mostly to avoid having to talk to those early birds who seemed convinced he existed solely for their questions. Today he was set up and waiting long before the first students trickled in--none of them Charles. Charles was always here when he arrived, but Erik didn't know if that was because he had arrived a minute or ten before Erik. He hoped it was ten. He wanted the chance to re-gain their footing.

The few students who were early seemed startled to find him there. They sat near the back of the class, glancing between him and each other, the occasional wisp of whispered conversation reaching his ears. Erik ignored them. He did his best to appear nonchalant; leaned against the podium, coffee within reach, open text in front of him. They were finishing Wordsworth today, and he was particularly looking forward to hearing Charles' views on the actual poems.

He was also looking forward to hearing Charles' opinions on his poems. After Charles had left, Erik had made himself sick with worry--a stupid thing, considering most of his work had seen publication, had been critiqued by more people than he could count. Still, it was different sharing his work with the people in his life--and somewhere along the way Charles had become one of those people. His work was personal, a window to the soul, and he was terrified Charles would find his wanting.

Erik glanced up as another student entered the room, well aware that he probably appeared far more eager than he wanted to appear. It wasn't Charles stumbling through the door, but rather, Janos. He looked worried. Erik had left him a note, but considering Erik had never left a note--nor had he arrived for a class early--he couldn't really blame Janos for his worry. Erik offered him a reassuring smile. Janos calmed instantly and crossed the room to Erik's side.

"Is there something going on today that I don't know about?" he asked in a forced stage-whisper, as though he'd forgotten a quiz or assignment.

"No, I just wanted to come early today," Erik answered, which seemed to confuse Janos to no end, though he didn't say anything further.

Instead he dropped his stuff on the back table, pulled out the day's handouts, and began circulating them around the room.

The room slowly filled, more and more students--and where had they all come from, Erik still wondered--piling into the room. There weren't enough desks to hold them all, so that by the time the class was due to start, at least half a dozen were forced to stand.

None of them were Charles.

Erik frowned, and then waited an extra five minutes--much to the confusion of his students, who whispered amongst themselves, and Janos, who watched Erik warily. Five minutes into the start of class, Erik decided that Charles probably wasn't coming--would he never come again? Had Erik scared him off? Had he given up? Would Erik never see him again?

He started his lecture.

 _Five years have past; five summers, with the length  
Of five long winters! and again I hear  
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs  
With a soft inland murmur._

He could tell immediately today's lecture was going to be forced, his tone listless, his enthusiasm absent. He was distracted, and there were few in the class willing to participate without direct prompting. He did his best to muddle through his introduction, though he remained acutely aware that something--someone--was missing.

~*~

Charles sat cross-legged in the middle of his bed, coffee balanced on his knee. He stared at the time display on his iPhone, watching as it clicked over to 8:15. He was officially missing Erik's class.

He'd debated going, though mostly because he was hoping yesterday had been a fluke and today Erik would smile at him and engage him in conversation and then maybe apologize for yesterday and invite Charles to coffee.

It was exactly those kinds of delusions that had decided Charles against going, because he knew full well that wasn't going to happen, and the last thing he wanted to do was torment himself.

No, Moira was right; a clean break was what he needed. He'd focus this week on his work--Hank would undoubtedly be pleased--and on preparing for midterms--which were still several weeks away, but Charles had a tendency to wait until the last minute so maybe this year he wouldn't be struggling to set exam questions the night before. Then this weekend he'd let Moira take him out, and if he was lucky, he'd meet someone new and Erik would be a distant memory, just another one of the ones that got away.

Charles' stomach rolled with nausea at the thought, but he told himself his milk had just gone off, that he would drink his next coffee black and he would be fine. It didn't stop him from glancing across the room, to where his messenger bag sat on the floor where it had landed last night.

Erik's poems were still inside, unread.

That was the thing he didn't understand, because why would Erik give him a collection of poems if he wasn't interested? That wasn't the sort of thing people did; was it? It wasn't like Charles would be able to say much about them. Certainly Erik didn't expect him to critique them; did he? Or maybe he was trying to tell Charles something. Maybe he was trying to give Charles insight into his psyche. Maybe the answers to Charles' questions were right there, in that binder, just waiting for Charles to seek them out.

Then again, maybe Charles would end up just as confused as he was now, if not more so.

This wasn't the first time Charles had had this debate.

"Oh, to hell with it," Charles said, draining his coffee and then climbing off the bed. He crossed to the kitchen counter, where he deposited his mug, and then over to his messenger bag, where he pulled out Erik's binder.

Either way he'd get an answer. If there was nothing in them--if they gave no insight into why Erik had spent the last few weeks toying with him--then Charles would simply consider himself justified in his decision to move on. If, on the other hand, there was something in them that explained Erik's behavior, then Charles could come up with a new plan of attack. Either option was better than this endless wondering.

Charles brought the binder back to the bed, sat down, and [flipped it open to the first page](http://www.nekosmuse.com/outsider.html).

 _Outsider_ was not a poem Charles had read before, but he recognized the title from [Wikipedia's list](http://www.nekosmuse.com/ErikLehnsherr.html), and if he remembered correctly, it was one of the first works Erik had published.

Reading it left Charles with goose bumps, a chill running down his spine as he tried to figure out what it meant. Had Erik's life really been filled with such pain? And what could have possibly caused it? He would have been so young when he'd written it; surely no one could know such agony at such a young age. Charles was no stranger to a dysfunctional childhood, but this--and he didn't think it could be about anything else--wasn't something he could comprehend. The Erik who wrote this must have been so lost--so helpless. Unbidden, Charles felt tears come to his eyes.

He flipped the page.

The second piece, _Lost Child_ gave perhaps a clearer picture of Erik's agony. He had lost someone--Charles wondered briefly who, but worried he already knew the answer. There was something in this piece that reminded Charles of himself, in the years after his father's death. He barely remembered the man now, but he remembered then feeling so utterly, utterly alone.

Try as he might, though, he couldn't figure out who Erik's _you_ might have been. A past love, Charles suspected--was this why Erik kept himself apart? Had he had his heart broken? Was he still in love with this person? In lieu of the answers Charles was hoping for, it seemed he was only left with more questions.

He read until his eyes began to cross, his vision blurred by tears. The more he read, the more he wanted to know this man--the more he felt a sense of connection that went beyond mere attraction. He was convinced Erik would never have shared something so personal--and Charles studiously ignored the fact that Erik had already shared these with the world at large--unless it meant something. It had to mean something. Erik wanted Charles to know him--to understand him--and why would he have done that if he wasn't interested?

As he neared the end of the binder, it became apparent that Erik's poetry revolved around several common themes. He wrote a lot about a tormented childhood--one filled with loss and displacement and isolation, even cruelty. Charles read _214782_ twice, weeping harder the second time for the boy undoubtedly trapped by life's cruel fate. His poems spoke of love--the kind that seemed more akin to hero worship than anything innocent and pure of heart--and of such anger that Charles could only assume someone had thoroughly broken Erik's heart. Was this what Erik was trying to tell him? Had he been so burned by love that he was afraid to try again?

It was too simple an answer, Charles knew, but he was grasping at straws--he wanted something, anything to help him understand. It was a long time before he set the binder aside, still with the intention of reading it anew--several times before it was returned to its owner.

He'd missed the better part of Erik's class now, but there was still half a morning to waste away, so Charles wiped the still wet tracks from his cheeks, and then crawled back into his bed. Perhaps Moira was right about this too; perhaps the extra sleep would do him some good.

~*~

Erik was early for his appointment with Dr. Frost. It seemed to be a reappearing theme this week.

He wasn't even entirely certain this appointment was still standing. He'd missed his last official one--from two weeks ago--and had had it rescheduled for last week, and had since then added an impromptu appointment after finding out about Shaw. This would mark his third appointment inside of eight days. For someone whose appointments were scheduled every other week, it seemed a little excessive.

Still, there were things he wanted to talk to Dr. Frost about, especially after yesterday. It was hard to verbalize exactly how disappointed he'd been when his class ended without any sign of Charles. He'd spent the better part of the afternoon--including his Critical Methods class--moping, debating whether or not to track Charles down and apologize for any offense he might have caused.

Erik shook his head at that, the entire notion ridiculous, because Charles wasn't even registered in the class, which meant he was likely attending because of his interest in Erik--hell, Erik was perfectly aware that a good number of his students weren't there for the poetry--and that when faced with Erik's rejection his interest in the class had undoubtedly waned.

He'd probably never see Charles again; something Erik very much didn't want to think about, however much he thought it might be for the best.

Angel, who was actually surprised to see him--Erik usually arrived ten minutes into the start of his session, never mind that he was paying for those ten minutes--kept giving him circuitous glances over the top of her desk, but Erik studiously ignored her. He kept his eyes trained on Dr. Frost's door, though he was still surprised when it swung open, Dr. Frost's last patient slipping from the room.

Erik didn't recognize the girl--young and unmemorable, though Erik recognized the despair that hooded her eyes. He'd seen that same expression in the mirror more times than he could count.

Dr. Frost, who had walked the girl to the door, started when she saw him sitting there. She glanced to her watch, then back to Erik, before finally turning her attention to the girl. Erik sat patiently as she made her goodbyes. Dr. Frost waited until the girl vanished through the door before giving Erik her full attention.

"You're early today, Erik," she said.

Erik stood, suddenly feeling awkward and uncertain.

"I wasn't sure if we were still on today," he said.

"Of course we are," Dr. Frost said, gesturing him through the door. For the first time since Erik had started coming here, she followed him into the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

Erik had already crossed to his chair and settled--he hadn't worn a coat today, the week's weather still unseasonably warm--before Dr. Frost took her customary place behind her desk. He didn't wait for her open the conversation--he didn't want to recount his last appointment, or talk about Shaw, or talk about Raven, or any of that. He just wanted her to fix him.

"You help people. That's what you do. It's your job," Erik said. Dr. Frost hesitated, but after a moment's consideration, she nodded.

"That is what I'm here for," she said.

"But can you actually make people better. Can you fix them?"

Now Dr. Frost frowned. Her gaze become searching, as though the answer to Erik's riddle was written in his irises. If only it were that easy, Erik mused.

"My job is to guide people down the path to self-healing, Erik," she said.

Erik scowled at that. He didn't want her sugar-coated, text-book answer. He wanted black or white, yes or no. Either she could help him or she couldn't; that was all that mattered.

"Can we cut the BS?" he asked. "I just want to know if you can make me normal."

And of course it could never be that simple--Erik knew that. He also knew that normal was a relative term; that there were few in the world that fit that definition. Still, he hoped she at least understood what he was driving at.

"What makes you abnormal, Erik?" she asked instead, which meant, no, she hadn't understood. Erik wasn't sure why he'd expected anything else.

He thought about leaving then--thought about what it might mean. He was still so very angry at Shaw--and if he thought about it long enough, he realized this whole mess with Charles was entirely Shaw's fault. He was still in danger of seeking Shaw out and hurting him, though he thought he'd at least conquered his urge to kill Shaw. What worried him more, though, was his impulse to seek Charles out, to start something that would probably end in disaster and heartbreak. What other option did he have?

Erik stayed.

"I've had a pretty fucked up life," he said.

Dr. Frost, who was listening more intently than Erik had ever seen, didn't say anything. Erik pressed on, needing to get it out quickly if he was going to get it out at all.

"My parents died when I was young, and I had to live in all these foster homes, places no child should ever be forced to live. Bad things happened; things I don't ever want to talk about. And then, when I finally get out, I stumble into a bad relationship where I get seriously taken advantage of, and now I'm afraid I'm going to end up hurting someone, because that's all I've ever been taught."

He'd just told Dr. Frost more about his life--and his reasons for being here--in half a minute than he had in the months he'd been seeing her. For the longest time she didn't say anything; merely sat and absorbed what Erik had just told her. He could almost see her putting the pieces together, coming up with a narrative for why Erik was the way he was.

He wondered if he should have told her that the only good thing his life had ever given him was Raven. Perhaps then he wouldn't seem so inhuman.

"Is there someone in particular you are worried about hurting?" Dr. Frost finally asked. It was a very leading question. Erik almost burst into laughter--he restrained himself mostly for fear it would come out as hysterical crying.

"Does it matter?" he asked. "I don't want to hurt anyone. I just want to be better than the people who were supposed to be my role models."

There was no way he could say it any better than that. He wanted to be the better man. Was that really too much to ask?

"It is not usually my place to judge my patients, Erik, but I can assure you, because you are here, because this worries you, that you are already the better man. The people who hurt you--and that includes Sebastian Shaw--did so without conscience. If nothing else, I hope that you come away from our sessions knowing that you are better than that.

It was a suffocating thing to hear, something that had not occurred to him until now. He tried to picture Sebastian in his place, fretting over the things he was doing to Erik--and all the others--and could not. Still, he had not told her everything. How could she possibly know without the whole of it? Erik released a shuddering breath.

"I think I might be interested in one of my students," he said.

It seemed the fastest way to get to the point.

~*~

The week dragged.

There was no other way to put it. It moved forward at a snail's pace, Charles stuck knee-deep in molasses. He taught classes. He ran labs. He graded quizzes. He ran samples at Hank's direction, Charles too preoccupied by his misery to find his own inspiration. In short, he moped.

Charles was not used to moping. It wasn't something he did--at least, not for any extended period of time. By the time Friday rolled around, he was more or less completely miserable, and had pretty much done his best to make everyone around him miserable too--he'd even called his mother to congratulate him on fucking him up so much that he couldn't even attract a nice guy, and wasn't she just so proud of that, because now he'd have to turn straight and find some girl to settle down with and congratulations, mommy, dearest, you've finally won.

And okay, that last part was only what he'd wanted to say. Mostly he'd told his mother's answering machine that it looked like he wasn't going to make it home for any of the holidays this year--not that he ever did, but on some off chance that it mattered, that she cared, he always called to let her know.

When Moira came to see him on Friday evening, he was convinced he was going to cancel their night out. He didn't want to go out to a club. He didn't want to get drunk or dance or make out with some random guy in the restroom. He wanted to go home, curl up on his bed, and read Erik's poetry--again.

"Dear God, Charles," Moira said when she saw him.

She'd been particularly busy this week, and hadn't seen him since Wednesday. Charles offered her a half-hearted smile from where he sat, behind his desk, buried in lab reports.

"When was the last time you even shaved?" she asked.

Charles shrugged, because did it matter? Moira seemed to think so, because she strode across Charles' office, pushed aside his reports, grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him to his feet. Charles had always been a little intimidated by Moira's forthrightness, but never more so than he was in that moment. He tried to muster his most beseeching expression, but was fairly certain all that came out was a pathetic looking pout.

"You are going to go home, eat something that isn't coffee," she said, casting a pointed glance to the dozen or so empty cups littering his desk. "And then you're going to shower--you definitely need to shower--shave and then put on some clean, nice clothes. Sean and I will be by to pick you up at 9:30."

Charles started shaking his head, because really, he just wasn't up for it, but Moira's expression brooked no argument, so Charles swallowed nervously and then nodded--which was exactly how he found himself, not four hours later, sitting pressed between Moira and Sean in a cab, heading towards Hellfire.

They'd gone early, specifically to avoid the lines that would undoubtedly form in an hour or so. The club was only just starting to fill and the hollowness of it was startling--the last time Charles had been at Hellfire, it was packed beyond capacity and he'd had to press through dozens of sweat-soaked bodies just to reach the bar. Not that Charles had minded.

Now it was an easy walk to the bar, the bartender--a broad shouldered man whose tan looked red under the strobe lights--frowned when he caught sight of Moira, but it shifted into a smile as his gaze slid across to Sean.

Sean, oblivious to the man's attention, ordered drinks for everyone, laughing good-naturedly at whatever it was that the bartender was saying. They chatted amicably for a few minutes before Moira managed to drag Sean away, Charles feeling his mood improve for the first time in days.

He patted Sean as they found an unoccupied corner booth. [Charles slid across first](http://www.nekosmuse.com/drunk.jpg), letting Moira claim the middle seat, Sean the end.

"What?" Sean asked when they were seated, having to shout over the music, which was already startlingly loud. The base of it reverberated off the bench, pulsing in Charles' chest. He already felt drunk off it.

"If he asks you if you want a blow job, he's not talking about a drink," Charles advised. Sean turned scarlet, but he laughed, shaking his head even as he shot Moira a fond look.

"The things I do for you," he said.

It wasn't terrible. They spent the first hour cloistered around their booth, watching as the club slowly filled. By the time 11:00 rolled around, it was impossible to see beyond their little corner of the club, the place packed with bodies. Charles nursed his first drink--unlike him in these sorts of situations--and then his second. By the time he'd finished his third, he felt comfortable enough to get up and dance.

He knew, even without having been told--and he'd been told numerous times--that his dancing resembled more of a [drunken shuffle](http://nekosmuse.com/goofydance.gif) than anything anyone might have called dancing, but he was fortunately the kind of person for whom awkward drunken dancing looked more adorable than pathetic. There were times when his youthful appearance tended to pay off, and this was one of them.

Within minutes he was no longer in want of dance partners--he even had a few guys tuck phone numbers into his pockets, copping feels while they were at it, but Charles was fuzzy enough by that point not to mind. It wasn't perfect--he found himself analyzing each guy who entered his field of vision, each time finding the prospect wanting. Six songs later, he still had no interest of taking up any of the offers he'd received--nor did he have any interest in issuing his own.

At the end of the next song, he shuffled back to his booth, where Moira and Sean were sitting side by side, laughing softly at the club's more daring patrons.

"Anyone?" Moira asked as soon as Charles was close enough to hear. Charles shook his head.

"Is it wrong that every guy I meet doesn't come close to comparing? I keep thinking; his eyes aren't green enough, or his cheekbones aren't high enough, or his accent isn't German enough. Not that I'm not having a good time," and he was, in a way, "but I don't think this is going to work."

Still, it had got him out of his house--and more importantly, out of his funk--so he couldn't help but be grateful.

"Come on, why don't we go make a circuit of the club. Maybe someone will catch your eye," Moira suggested. She paused briefly to confer with Sean, but he merely waved her on her way, so Moira slid from the booth and offered Charles a hand.

Charles took it, and let her navigate them through the crowd.

It was hard not to get swept up in the enthusiasm of the club. Charles' body pulsed with alcohol and the steady thrum of music, his vision blurred by flashing lights and the occasional wisp of smoke. Bodies painted with glitter skirted the edge of his vision, Charles registering then just how young most of the guys here were. God, maybe he was getting too old for this. Maybe he was going about this all wrong. It was no wonder he had no interest in taking any of these people home. Hell, now that he was looking, at least half of them had blown pupils. Twice in their circuit Charles was asked if he wanted to roll, three people offering him _Tina_ , and at least one of the numbers he'd pulled from his pocket had _PNP_ written beside the guy's number.

What was he doing here?

He reached forward to grab Moira's shoulder, pulling her back until she was close enough to speak into her ear.

"See something you like?" she asked, like this was a fucking candy store and these kids--oh, God, they were all kids--were something Charles could just buy. When he was younger, he used to make fun of the guys his age he saw in clubs like this. What the hell had happened?

"No. Decidedly not, and I think it's time we go," he said.

Moira looked momentarily surprised, but as soon as she caught his expression she nodded, glancing back to their booth--which they were nearing again--to find Sean chatting with a couple of guys.

"Let me just go extract my boyfriend. If you want, we'll meet you outside."

Charles nodded.

It was only steady determination that got him outside without another dozen or so numbers in his pocket--circling the club with Moira had been like walking around with repellent, their path easily navigated. As soon as he was through the door--and the line now stretched around the corner--he released a steady breath.

"Three coming out," he told the bouncer, who looked vaguely familiar until Charles realized he'd slept with the guy--and wasn't that just great. In a desperate bid to get away, Charles turned away from the crowd and slipped into the short alley between Hellfire and its neighbouring building.

He stood there breathing steadily, trying to clear his head for several minutes before he realized he wasn't alone. The scent of cigarette smoke reached his nose, Charles turning just as Raven stood, recognition dawning on her features.

"Oh my God, it's you," she said, standing from where she was sat on some rusty iron steps that led out of the club's fire exit.

"Raven, isn't it?" Charles asked, stepping forward to meet her. She smiled even as she nodded.

"What are you doing here, Charles?" she asked, and either she had a good memory for names, or Erik had mentioned him since their one and only introduction. Charles really hoped it was the latter.

It didn't answer her question, which was still hanging in the air between them.

It was entirely probable that Charles had had too much to drink, because his first instinct was blunt honesty. "Trying to get over your brother, actually," he said.

Raven's expression fell.

"Oh don't do that," she said. Charles wasn't sure what to say to that, so he simply stared at her, well aware that he probably looked as dumbfounded as he felt. "I know Erik can be a bit of an ass, but he likes you; he really, really does. He just has some boundary issues, but trust me he'll get over them. You just need to give him time."

That was more of an answer than Charles was expecting. Certainly it was more than he'd gotten from Erik's poetry. It still wasn't entirely reassuring.

"He likes me?" he asked, because that seemed to be Charles' sticking point, and really, it could mean almost anything.

Raven gave him a pointed look, tilting her head even as she raised her eyebrows.

"He's writing poetry about you," she said, and that... Charles had no idea what to do with that.

He felt himself smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, a goofy, teeth-filled smile appearing on his face. Given his current state of inebriation, he probably looked like a complete idiot--and he was glad now it was Raven he had run into and not Erik.

"Really?" he asked, sounding far, far too self-conscious to his own ears. Raven nodded, her expression turning conspiratorial. She leaned towards him.

"He's practically obsessed with you."

Charles brought his hand to his mouth, eyes growing wide as he tried to process what Raven was telling him. He felt giddy just thinking about it. In his entire life no one had ever been obsessed with him. It was always him nursing an obsession until he convinced the object of his desire to give him a chance. He had never been pursued; never been chased.

Give him time, Raven had said. Charles could do that. He could give Erik all the time in the world if it eventually meant having him--and Charles rather intended to keep him forever after that.

"Okay, good. Okay," Charles managed, because, really, what else was there to say?

Raven, who had finished her smoke, tossed the butt down onto the ground and stubbed it out with her heel. She offered Charles a pleased smile.

"Give me your phone," she said. Charles didn't hesitate in doing so.

As soon as she had it she pulled out hers and copied over his number, then added one to his before handing it back. Charles, who was expecting Raven's, was startled to find she'd given him Erik's. His breath caught in his throat.

"Don't call him, yet. Wait until you hear from me, but for God's sake, please start attending his lectures. If I have to deal with him moping again because you didn't turn up for class I'm going have to kill him."

Hearing that was just icing on the cake, because Charles had rather convinced himself that Erik wouldn't care that Charles had stopped attending his lectures. To learn otherwise made him even giddier than he already was--which, honestly, Charles wouldn't have thought possible. He smiled at Raven, even as he cradled his iPhone to his chest.

"I can do that," he said. Raven nodded, and then glanced over her shoulder. It occurred to Charles then that she probably worked here. He hadn't seen her inside, but then it was rather hard to find anyone in Hellfire--even if you were looking for them.

"I should get back," she said, so Charles let her go, still grinning when Moira and Sean found him five minutes later. Moira's eyebrows disappeared into her hairline when she saw him.

"It's only be ten minutes. What happened?" she demanded, clearing thinking he'd scored in that short period of time--and to be fair, it wasn't without precedence.

Charles didn't say anything. He merely lifted his phone and showed her Erik's number.


	10. Chapter 10

"Tell me what we're doing here again?"

Charles scanned the path in either direction. He glanced over his shoulder, where, through the treeline, he could just make out the street. This was the place--the south-east corner, the running path parallel to East Drive, across from the Sherman monument. Charles checked his watch.

"We're hanging out, enjoying the warm weather," he said, ignoring Moira's snort that told him exactly how thinly veiled she believed his excuse.

"It is 8:30 on a Sunday morning, and we trucked all the way to Central Park so that we could hang out and enjoy the warm weather," Moira said.

"And have coffee," Charles reminded her, holding up his cup. He'd bought her one, a thank you for agreeing to meet him at so ungodly an hour--well, for her, anyway; Moira had never been a morning person.

Charles on the other hand loved Sunday mornings in Central Park. They were decidedly lacking in tourists and there were no families with small children--they would come later. At this hour the only people around were the runners. Well, and the people stalking them, Charles supposed.

"Oh my God; Erik's here, isn't he?" Moira asked, as if she'd heard Charles' thought. Charles flushed even as he tried to come up with a reasonable explanation.

There probably wasn't one.

"His sister..." he began.

"His sister?" Moira sounded incredulous, not that Charles could blame her. In the history of bad ideas, this was probably one of Charles' worst. He was fairly certain conspiring with Erik's sister was going to end up backfiring. He just hoped Erik was so hopelessly infatuated with him by the time that happened that he would be willing to forgive Charles the indiscretion.

"His sister told me he runs here every Sunday morning. That he takes the path around the pond. She suggested this would be a perfect place to conveniently bump into him."

Moira was staring at him, colour draining from her face even as her eyes grew far too wide for their sockets. Charles winced.

"Bad plan?"

"Really, really bad plan," Moira said. She shook her head, but Charles wasn't quite ready to hear just why he was fucking this up.

"He's writing poetry about me, Moira. Poetry," he said. He pulled out his phone then and retrieved Raven's first text. He'd reread it at least a dozen times since it arrived on Saturday night--and would likely read it a dozen more times before the day was done.

Wordlessly, he handed [Moira his phone](http://www.nekosmuse.com/magnetic2.html).

Impossibly, her eyes grew even wider as she read it.

"Oh my God," she said when she was done, which had pretty much been Charles' reaction--still was his reaction if he was honest with himself.

"I know," Charles said, because what else could he say, except perhaps, "I'm his magnetic north." It still made him giddy to say it.

"He's in love with you," Moira said, and Charles could have kissed her for voicing it, because he'd thought it--wanted to believe it--but he was hardly in a position to give an unbiased opinion on the subject.

Charles bit his lip to keep from grinning like a loon. That sort of thing might have been okay when he was drunk, or in the privacy of his own home, but it was hardly acceptable behavior at 8:30 on a Sunday morning in the middle of the park. That didn't mean his hand didn't tremble terribly as he took back his phone and tucked it into his pocket.

"Seriously, Charles, how did you get this guy to fall in love with you inside a few weeks?"

"Hey," Charles said, and then, because he knew Moira hadn't actually meant offense, offered, "love at first sight?"

Moira shook her head, but she offered no further objection after that. She sat perched on the edge of the bench, sipping her coffee, helping Charles scan the park for runners that might or might not have been Erik. She had yet to meet him, so whenever she spotted someone she pointed him out, only for Charles to shake his head. He'd about given up hope when she pointed out someone crossing the stone bridge on the other side of the pond.

Charles' breath caught in his throat.

Then he panicked.

Given the direction Erik was running, there was a chance he might forgo the path Charles had chosen. He might swing north, head further into the park--though Raven had assured him Erik looped the pond, and that would mean having to pass Charles' location. He waited, watching the connecting path for any sign of Erik.

He didn't really start breathing again until he saw him.

Ahead, the path bent, curling back towards the juncture that branched towards the stone bridge. Erik stuttered to a stop, close enough that Charles could see the flush of his face, but not the beads of sweat that undoubtedly covered his skin. For one terrifying moment, Charles thought that Erik had noticed him and intended to turn the other way, but Erik wasn't looking in Charles' direction, stopping only to retrieve the bottle of water that hung off the belt around his waist.

"Okay," Moira said, clearly as thunderstruck as Charles, "So when you said gorgeous, you meant gorgeous."

Charles grunted something that might have been agreement. It was hard to tell, given that his every thought was preoccupied by the fact that Erik was wearing shorts.

They were hardly indecent--unfortunately--but they certainly showed the shape of Erik's calves. Charles ran his eyes along their length for several long seconds. The sight made Charles want to take up running--though only so that he could have an excuse to run with Erik. Erik would probably be a little faster, so Charles would be forced to run a pace behind.

The view, he imagined, would be stunning.

He'd tried running years ago, when he was still dating Scott and Scott had suggested they take up something they could do together. In Scott's mind that had meant running. Charles had hated it.

He suspected now he had simply lacked motivation.

He let his gaze trail up, watching the line of Erik's throat as Erik swallowed. The hair around his neck was damp, curled with sweat. He was breathing heavily. When he had finished drinking, he brought the back of his hand up to wipe at his mouth. Charles bit a little harder into the lip clenched between his teeth.

"I think I might have just gotten pregnant," Moira announced when Erik decided to lift his shirt, using it to wipe the sweat from his face. Doing so revealed a line of abs the likes of which Charles had never seen.

Charles felt his mouth grow dry. He swallowed heavily. He licked his lips even as he willed his threatened erection into submission. God, how he wanted to lick every inch of Erik's waist; from his defined six-pack to the jut of his hips to the dip of his navel. Unlike Erik, Charles had never written poetry--had never even contemplated it--but he could write it now, entire verses on Erik's abs alone.

"We have to at least try to pretend this is a chance meeting," Charles said, which would have been easier were he not so thoroughly distracted by Erik's midsection. He watched the soft drape of Erik's shirt as it fell, covering his stomach even as the newly stretched neck revealed Erik's collarbone.

Christ, Charles really, really needed to get laid. He wondered exactly how long Raven had had in mind when she'd told him to be patient.

"Too late," Moira said, which made absolutely no sense until Charles remembered what they were supposed to be doing. He glanced up sharply to find Erik staring directly at him. Charles swallowed, his mouth going dry again, this time for an entirely different reason.

It was hardly the first time Charles had been caught--and by now Erik certainly knew that Charles was interested--but Charles still felt himself flush even as he raised his hand to wave awkwardly, apologetic smile settling over his face. Moira hid behind her coffee.

Charles watched, butterflies swimming in his stomach, as a myriad of emotions crossed Erik's face. Surprised was followed by genuine delight, then hesitation, and finally indecision--though it was entirely possible Charles had imagined some of those. Charles waited, holding his breath while Erik waged some internal war before making his decision. He tucked his water bottle back into his belt and jogged over to where Charles and Moira were sitting.

Had Charles not been trying for casual indifference, he might have pumped a fist into the air.

Erik stopped right in front of them. Charles stood, resisting the urge to simply throw himself at Erik--because now he could make out the beads of sweat on Erik's skin and, oh, how he wanted to chase them with his tongue. It was only the rustling beside him--Moira standing--that stopped him.

"Hey," Erik said, cringing slightly like he'd meant to say something else. He glanced uncertainly in Moira's direction.

"Hi," Charles said, undoubtedly sounding like a complete idiot. Moira snorted into her cup. Charles did his best to ignore her--which lasted just until Erik cast another glance in her direction, Charles kicking himself then. "Sorry, Erik, this is Moira; Moira, Erik. Moira's my closest friend. She lives nearby," she didn't, "so we sometimes hang out on Sunday mornings."

It was a reasonable excuse, and had the benefit of explaining Charles' presence in the park. Charles congratulated himself on his quick thinking.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Moira said, extending a hand. Erik paused only long enough to wipe his hand on his shorts--it pulled them nicely across his groin, Charles noted--before accepting her hand.

"Yeah, likewise, and sorry," he said, holding up his hand when he was done as if to excuse his sweaty palms.

Introductions seemed to be as far as anybody was willing to go, the three of them standing there, Erik shuffling awkwardly--that runners shuffle that Charles saw people doing at lights--while Charles tried desperately to find a way to keep Erik from darting off again. Fortunately Moira--who'd always had such a good grasp of people and relationships--shook her now empty coffee cup in a universal symbol for _I need another one_.

"Can I get you anything, Erik?" she asked, nodding over her shoulder to the nearest vendor. Erik shook his head. Moira turned to Charles.

"No," he said, mentally adding _but take your time_ , wishing she could hear.

She was gone no more than half a minute when Erik, after a second's awkward indecision, settled, seeming willing to abandon his run in favour of talking with Charles. He stepped a little closer, so that he was no longer blocking the path, the action bringing him close enough that Charles could feel the heat coming off of his body.

No man, Charles decided, should smell as good as Erik did after running.

"You weren't in class on Wednesday," Erik said, as though picking up an old conversation. He wasn't looking at Charles, but staring at his feet, the toe of his sneaker tracing circles on the ground.

Charles watched the movement for several seconds before realizing he was meant to answer.

"I had a dentist appointment," he lied--and he hated doing it, he really did, but it was either that or say _I couldn't bear to face you after you rejected me and why the hell did you do that if you're writing beautiful poetry about me?_

It was probably too soon in their relationship for that.

Erik, who was still impossibly tense, relaxed instantly. It was an incredible thing to witness, all of Erik's tension bleeding from him, his shoulders falling even as a slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. His foot stopped moving.

"We're reading Ancient Mariner next week," Erik said. Charles smiled.

"Oh? I like that poem. We studied it when I was away at boarding school," he said, which seemed to be the wrong thing to say, because Erik stiffened again. Navigating the mind field of Erik's boundaries--as Raven had so eloquently called then--was proving far more difficult than Charles had imagined. It might have helped if he actually knew what those boundaries were. He made a note to ask Raven.

For now, he changed tactics.

"I liked your poems, too," he said, and that drew Erik's attention, Erik glancing up sharply to meet Charles' eye.

"You've read them?" he said, seeming surprised, though Charles could hardly imagine why.

"Several times now," Charles confessed. "You write beautifully. I found them incredibly moving." He paused, uncertain if he should go into specifics. Instead he settled on, "I can bring the binder to class on Monday, if you want, but I wouldn't mind keeping them for a bit, if you don't need them."

He didn't want to give up Erik's poetry--he wanted to keep them forever, to read them and read them and read them until Erik made sense.

Erik shook his head. "Keep them as long as you need," he said, sounding pleased.

Charles nodded, smiling softly at that. He decided to take a gamble.

"Can I ask you something?"

Something shifted in Erik's gaze, but he nodded, holding himself incredibly still. Charles swallowed.

"Who did you lose?" It was probably far too personal a question, and he suspected he already knew the answer, but so much of Erik's poetry spoke of loss--enough that it was impossible for Erik not to have experienced that loss first hand.

Erik hesitated, as though debating whether or not to answer. Charles was about to backpedal--to tell Erik never mind, that it was none of his business; that he was sorry for having asked, when Erik glanced down and then spoke.

"My parents," he said even as he shrugged. "I was nine. Their car went into the river."

Charles' breath caught at that. He found himself glancing to the pond over Erik's shoulder, understanding then the reoccurring water themes found throughout Erik's work. Charles knew enough about poetry to know that most people used water as a metaphor for cleansing, but in Erik's work, water tended to represent some ominous force, capable of destroying lives. In his case, Charles supposed, it had.

"I'm sorry," he said, because there was nothing else he could say.

Erik didn't say anything in response, but he didn't take off running again, and the lines around his eyes loosened somewhat, so Charles suspected it was the right thing to say. He still looked more awkward than he had since he first decided to join Charles--was still staring at his feet--so Charles cleared his throat and offered, "I lost my father when I was five."

Erik glanced up at that, features shifting to something that Charles instantly recognized. Unlike sympathy--which had always been too close to pity for Charles' tastes--this was empathy. He didn't say anything, but the silence that spilled between them grew comfortable, conciliatory. Had Charles not been afraid to break it, he might have reached between them and placed a hand on Erik's arm.

There were other things Charles wanted to ask--he wanted to know who Erik wrote about with such devotion and love; and were they the same someone who had later inspired such anger and hate? He wanted to ask if Erik had written anything recently. He wanted to tell Erik specifics--mention that his second untitled piece had left Charles shaking with rage, and that _[Brotherhood](http://nekosmuse.com/brotherhood.html)_ had made him yearn for something he had never had. He wanted to thank him for not giving into the despair he'd read in _[A Damaged Life](http://nekosmuse.com/damagedlife.html)_.

Instead he said nothing, letting Erik grow comfortable with the silence between them. He was not expecting Erik to break it.

"Do you write?" Erik asked.

Charles flushed, thinking then of Erik's abs and the many, many odes he wanted to write to them.

Erik, who was watching Charles carefully now, obviously misread the reaction, because he smiled softly and said, "May I see them sometime?"

And what was there for Charles to do, save agree--and then immediately begin panicking, because undoubtedly Erik meant sometime soon, and that gave Charles precariously little time to figure out how to write poetry, and then write it.

Still, Erik's pleased smile was more than worth it.

~*~

Erik was grinning when he got home, pleasantly flushed from the remainder of his run--the half he'd finished after Charles' friend had returned and reminded Erik that he was probably dangerously close to stepping over his self-imposed line.

And it was a self-imposed line, Erik had realized after his session with Dr. Frost, one he ought to be proud for having set.

 _Falling for one of your students does not make you a monster, Erik. We don't get to pick and choose the people we develop feelings for, and your interest in him neither violates the law nor school policy._

He'd spent several long, agonizing minutes thinking she'd just given him permission to pursue Charles.

 _I'm not advocating you date Charles. In fact I think the boundaries you've set for yourself are admirable, necessary even, though not for him; for you._

She'd asked him then if he thought Sebastian had loved him. If he thought Sebastian had ever agonized over boundaries. Erik had reluctantly agreed he had not; he did not.

At the time it had felt like love.

He remembered that first night--remembered lying in Shaw's bed, Shaw leaned over him, trailing calloused fingers from Erik's sternum to his navel. Erik had shivered, twisting against the sensation. Shaw had asked, _Are you a virgin, Erik?_ and Erik had nodded, stomach tightening with nerves. Shaw had only smiled, and in that moment it had looked like love.

For a long, long time Erik had thought it was.

 _You know this isn't the same, don't you, Erik? Your feelings for Charles are in no way related to what Sebastian Shaw did to you._

She'd told him then that his feelings for Charles were valid--that he was allowed to feel them. Three days later, Erik was starting to maybe believe her.

She'd also made him acknowledge that Charles was his first crush since Shaw--that having a first crush after Shaw was actually progress, a sign he was beginning to heal. It explained, too, she said, the intensity of his feelings, undoubtedly more powerful because of the dearth in his life so far. It was perhaps the first productive session he could remember having with her--having with anyone if he was honest with himself.

Certainly it was enough to lighten his mood.

He toed off his shoes when he got through the front door, throwing his fuel belt onto the ground beside them. He pulled his shirt, damp with sweat, over his head and headed towards the kitchen.

Raven was undoubtedly still asleep--she'd sleep until noon if he let her--which was good, because she had rule about shirts in the kitchen. Something about skin cells and body hair getting into the food and then she'd have to dispose of everything and do the shopping from scratch. No shirts, no socks, no service was her rule--and most of the time Erik obey it to the letter.

Today he stood [shirtless in the kitchen](http://www.nekosmuse.com/coffee.gif), started the coffee and then headed in search of a shower.

He was feeling... euphoric was a good word. Part of that was the run. Running always helped to clear his head--it was probably the best advice any therapist had ever given him--the adrenalin and endorphins a natural high. Most of his good mood he suspected he owed to his chance meeting with Charles.

He'd thought he'd never see him again--had worried Charles would stop attending lectures. He hadn't expected to learn otherwise, nor had he expected them to slide so effortlessly back into synch. It was almost as if the universe had, in one morning, decided to make amends for pretty much the whole of Erik's life so far.

Not that it had made his life any easier, because Charles was still off limits--for the time being, at least--but at least Erik hadn't lost him completely, and if Dr. Frost was to be believed, Erik didn't need to feel guilty for thinking about Charles the way that he thought about Charles. He was allowed to have a crush.

As he stepped into the shower, he wondered how far that extended. Were there limits to what he was allowed to think? Or was Dr. Frost right in suggesting the boundaries he set were his own, limited entirely by what he was comfortable with. Could he, say, fantasize about Charles--something he'd done, though only ever with a tremendous amount of guilt.

He thought perhaps he could set parameters for that, too. Like maybe it was okay if he imagined himself younger, still a student. He wondered what it would have been like if Charles had met him instead of Shaw. Would Charles have been his first kiss? Charles would have undoubtedly been gentler than Shaw--who'd marvelled at the tightness of Erik's asshole before sticking a blunt finger inside. The experience had not been pleasant. Erik had been too blinded by worship to question it.

Charles, though, would have wet his finger with his mouth, would have played with Erik, teased Erik, until he opened completely. Only then would he have slid a finger inside. He would have let Erik touch, too, not told him to keep his hands at his sides. Erik would have run his hands through Charles' hair--it looked so soft--and over his shoulders, down the lines of his arms. And maybe Charles would have laughed when Erik's fingers tickled sensitive flesh, and the sound would fill the space between them until Erik was smiling, smiling.

In his memory, Shaw's smile was made entirely of daggers.

Erik started, the cock in his hand still only half hard, the water beating against him becoming a rushing torrent, streaming in through the open car window.

It was rare that he attempted this-- _Masturbation is normal, Erik_ , a therapist had once told him, but not for him. His sexuality was too tied up in his history. There were days when the effort seemed futile, and today was one of those days. He shook off the image of Shaw holding him beneath the water--something that had never happened--and removed his hand from his cock, reaching for the shampoo instead.

It was probably for the best; already the things he had thought about Charles seared through him, guilt coiling in his chest. He finished his shower quickly and tried to find the serenity seeing Charles had brought.

He found it on the pages of his Moleskine.

Writing had always been cathartic. He vented his rage for Shaw, reclaiming his earlier good mood in the process. Then he set about making breakfast.

~*~

 _Raven Interlude_

Raven stood, not quite comprehending what she was seeing. She'd known Erik was cooking, the scent of bacon--which Erik cooked exclusively for her, refusing to eat the stuff himself, still clinging desperately to the ideals of his parents faith, despite having no true understanding of it--reaching her nose long before she'd left her bedroom. What she wasn't expecting was to find Erik whistling.

Erik never whistled.

She knew precisely why he was in a good mood--it was blindingly obvious that Charles had followed her instructions, had staged a chance meeting, and here were the fruits of her labour, her brother happier than she'd seen him in months--if not years.

And this was why she'd violated his request--why she'd likely do it again.

For a while Raven merely stood and watched, a soft smile pulling at her mouth. Erik was her whole world, and to see him happy filled her with such joy she thought her heart might burst. She would never have this--never trust anyone, save Erik, enough to fall in love--but she could live vicariously through him, feel the tender swell of happiness that came with having found someone worth finding.

Erik, who obviously sensed someone watching him, tensed briefly before glancing over his shoulder. He seemed startled to find her there--though Raven imagined it was probably her smile that had surprised him. He arched an eyebrow in her direction.

"Do you know you were whistling?" Raven asked. Erik coloured. Raven couldn't help but smirk.

"I may have run into Charles during my run," he said, sounding guilty, like he had purposely sought Charles out--and for all Raven knew, maybe he had. "He didn't drop the class. He just had an appointment."

Raven grinned at that. She knew the truth, of course--and this would mark the first time she had kept a secret from Erik, but she told herself this was no different than hiding Erik's birthday present from him.

"Did you ask him out?" she said, kicking herself then, because Erik's smile slid from his face.

He'd told her what his shrink had said--which as far as Raven was concerned was permission to begin dating Charles immediately. Erik had disagreed, which was probably a sign he wasn't going to ask Charles out anytime soon. Raven should have known better.

"I'm not going to date him, Raven. If, after he graduates, he's still single and interested, then we'll see, but for now our relationship is going to remain strictly platonic."

There wasn't much Raven could say to that--though she did nod, coming into the kitchen to steal a piece of cooked bacon from where Erik was setting it atop folded paper towel. It was obvious she had her work cut out for her, though she wasn't sure what would be easier; convincing Erik to give up his stringent morality, or convincing Charles that Erik was worth waiting for.

She suspected it was going to take some combination of the two.


	11. Chapter 11

Erik wasn't a morning person, but neither was he not a morning person. He was probably one of the few individuals in the world who could truly claim neutrality on the subject. He woke up--often without needing an alarm--rolled out of bed without much fanfare, and padded to the kitchen because if there was anything Erik was it was a coffee person. He liked coffee.

Shaw had preferred tea.

Erik didn't know what Charles preferred. He hoped it wasn't tea.

This morning, however, he woke a little earlier than usual, so instead of seeking out the day's first caffeine fix, he lingered in bed.

Erik never lingered.

It was... nice, he thought, stretching against the sheets, wiggling his toes, his muscles still pleasantly achy from yesterday's run--and later walk. After breakfast, he and Raven had taken advantage of the weather and rambled about the city, Erik's good mood lasting the entire day--and it seemed to have lasted the night as well, Erik feeling strangely serene this morning. Raven had dictated where they went, dragging him in and out of shops were she systematically spent a weekend's worth of tip money on frivolous things that Erik had no idea Raven had even wanted.

He'd kept track of some of it--who knew she had a fondness for tacky costume jewelry--planning on using his newfound knowledge the next time her birthday rolled around.

They'd eaten dinner in a little Italian place that sold pizza on flatbread, topped with fresh herbs and crumbled goat cheese, and after had gotten late night coffee in a cafe near Bryant Park. They'd detoured on the way home--heading north instead of south--so that Raven could see the lights of Broadway at night. She'd made Erik promise he'd take her to one--if not all--of the shows.

He suspected she meant sooner rather than later.

The apartment was still quiet, which meant Raven was still asleep--no surprise there--so Erik stretched again, this time bringing his hands over his head. He rarely allowed himself these luxuries, but yesterday had been so pleasant--right from the start--that he wanted to chase that feeling as long as it lasted.

Raising his hands above his head had lifted his undershirt, so that his sheets scratched against the bare skin of his back. It sparked something in him that after yesterday's fiasco he was almost afraid to acknowledge.

He approached it cautiously, bringing his hands down to fold across his stomach. When that didn't dispel it, he let his thumb slip beneath the hem of his shirt to rub absently at the space just above his belly button. Heat pooled in his groin.

He let his legs splay, just a little--limbs loose from a night of slumber--and drifted one hand down and another up. He reached the line of his briefs with one hand just as the other brushed against a nipple.

This was the point where this would either go forward--and Erik realized he probably needed it to go forward; certainly it wasn't healthy, how infrequently he did this, never mind that he'd been celibate for at least three years now--or it would peter out. So far it seemed to be moving forward.

He paused long enough to pull his shirt over his head, pushing the sheets down so that [they pooled around his hips](http://www.nekosmuse.com/bed.jpg), and then did his best to clear his head--concentrating only on the sensation of his hands, trying to stay in the moment and not delve into fantasy. He ran his fingers across his low belly, skirting the edge of the sheet. His skin erupted into gooseflesh. Erik shivered, and then licked at his lips. So far, so good.

Unlike most of Erik's partners--and there hadn't been many, and they'd all been male--Erik liked having his nipples played with. He liked having them touched and kissed and bit. He rubbed at them now, occasionally taking a nipple between his thumb and forefinger and squeezing gently, then a little harder until pleasure spiked through him. His cock, already hard given the hour, showed no sign of losing interest.

He slid a hand into his underwear.

He avoided touching his cock directly, instead threading his fingers through his pubic hairs, running feather-light touches across the insides of his thighs and the creases of his legs. None of his partners had liked being touched so gently either. It seemed in that--as in many things--Erik was an anomaly. Certainly Shaw had never touched him gently. Even his caresses were weighted by intent.

Erik wasn't entirely certain how he'd allowed Shaw to creep into his thoughts, so Erik banished him to a dark corner of his mind before his presence could derail this entire experiment. He was half expecting it to be too late, but his interest didn't seem to be waning, so Erik slowly--oh, so slowly--brought his fingers to the tip of his penis, wrapping them lightly around the head, thumb brushing across his slit.

And that was good. It was very good, Erik thought, smiling a little dopily as he blinked up at the ceiling--he was terrified to close his eyes, afraid of what he'd find written on the back of his eyelids. He could feel pressure building, some of his earlier caution dissipating as he gave himself over to the sensation. He ran his fingers down his length, then back up again, tracing absent patterns as he moved, hips arching slightly off the bed.

It was suddenly far, far too warm.

He used the hand not currently wrapped around his cock to toss aside the covers, cool air touching him in places it rarely touched him. He shivered against the sensation, even as it further aroused him. He knew it was a left over from Shaw--Shaw had liked to watch--but Shaw was still banished, so Erik didn't let it bother him, instead arching into his hand, stifling a moan with his free hand so that he didn't disturb Raven.

The hand on his cock was working a little bit faster now--his grip a little firmer. It was a little dry, so he stopped long enough to spit into his hand, using his spit and what little precome he produced as lubrication. And that was better, enough that Erik could get lost in the sensation--slick and hot, his fingertips occasionally brushing against his balls whenever his hand reached his base.

He was still trying desperately to keep his mind blank--to concentrate only on the sensation--but the occasional image drifted into awareness. Mostly he managed to keep it generic--sweat-soaked skin and hard curves, an unknown hand, an anonymous mouth--but unbidden the mouth became a familiar shade of red, soft skin growing pale. Flashes of blue eyes, pupils blown wide with arousal, flickered across his vision, but Erik was too far gone to feel anything other than want at their inclusion.

He let himself wonder. Let himself imagine running hands through soft brown hair; let himself imagine sliding against milky white flesh. Charles smiled at him, eyes flashing. _Come on, my friend_ he whispered in Erik's ear, and Erik came.

It was a little startling, actually, how quickly it happened. Erik was used to having to work for it--used to giving up in the middle when it seemed it wouldn't happen. Now, ropes of sticky white come painted his stomach, his body stuttering through its orgasm, every nerve alight with pulsing satisfaction. Even as he came down from the high he couldn't find him in it to feel guilty--that would undoubtedly come later--it had been far too long and there was no one else who could have sent him over the edge so quickly.

Shaw was nowhere to be found, Erik was pleased to note.

He spent several long minutes basking in the afterglow--another luxury Erik rarely allowed--before he finally climbed out of bed and slipped into the bathroom to clean himself up. When he was done, he dressed and then headed towards the kitchen to see about breakfast.

He found Raven sitting on the couch, Erik's notebook open on her lap.

For a brief moment Erik panicked, certain then that she'd heard. She didn't say anything, though, merely smiled when she saw him and asked if he intended to make coffee. Raven's coffee making skills matched her culinary skills; which was to say, they were non-existent.

Erik nodded, and then shuffled into the kitchen, knees still a little rubbery. He set the coffee brewing and then returned to the couch, sinking down next to Raven. He glanced over her shoulder.

She was reading the [poem he'd written yesterday](http://www.nekosmuse.com/erikspoem2.html).

"I might have been a little angry with him," Erik said, and there was no need to mention who, not with Raven. She nodded.

"I can tell. Still, it's good you're writing again."

It was, Erik realized. He hadn't really written anything in the last few years--had almost given up on ever being able to do so again.

"I was thinking I might put together a collection," Erik said. Raven smiled brightly at that, pride and relief flashing across her features. Coming to America, Erik thought, had been rather good for them.

Raven's smile shifted into a smirk. "Will you dedicate it to Charles?" she asked, teasing. Erik chuckled.

"If nothing else, he stands as my muse," he admitted, realizing too late the innuendo that had seeped into his tone.

If Raven heard, she didn't say anything, but she looked entirely too pleased, so Erik rolled his eyes at her and pushed himself off the couch. He headed back into the kitchen, rummaging through their fridge in search of something reasonable for breakfast. They had eggs and peppers and mushrooms, so he set about making them omelets. He was just cracking the first batch of eggs when Raven entered the kitchen. She jumped up to sit on the island counter.

"Why are you up so early, anyway?" Erik asked. He paused in what he was doing to pour them both a cup of coffee.

"Not sure," Raven shrugged. She didn't look particularly upset--nor did she look like she'd spent the entire night awake--so Erik let it drop and finished what he was doing.

It wasn't until later--after they'd eaten--that Raven smiled shyly and told him to stay put. Erik frowned, but nodded, watching as she disappeared into their shared office. He flashed back briefly to the last time she'd done so, the day she'd brought him Columbia's policy book and told him dating Charles was perfectly acceptable. It felt like such a long time ago now.

She returned a minute later, holding something behind her back. When Erik cocked his head, she pulled it out and handed it to him with a flourish.

It was a [leather bound notebook](http://www.epica.com/Italian-Leather-Journals-with-Hand-Cut-Pages.html), the one Erik had seen in one of the shops Raven had dragged him through yesterday. He'd gone back to it several times, debating whether or not to buy it. He couldn't for the life of him figure out when Raven had purchased it.

He glanced at her now, the corners of his mouth pulling down into a frown.

"Raven..." he said.

"You kept looking at it, and then walking away, and then coming back to look at it." She shrugged.

Erik shook his head, even as he accepted the book, turning it over in his hand.

"I wasn't looking at it for me," he said. Raven snorted.

"Obviously." Erik's head shot up at that. "Please, Erik, you've been buying the same kind of notebook for like ten years now. You're not going to change now. But you should give it to him."

And of course she'd known he was looking at it for Charles. Not that he had intended to ever buy Charles a gift--at least, not now--but the second he'd seen the book it had reminded him of Charles. There was just something about it that screamed Charles--its soft leather cover, its hand-cut pages, its refined, classic appearance.

"How did you even afford this?" Erik asked, because there was no way Raven's tips had covered this.

"I used your credit card," she said, looking as though she was trying for guilty. Mostly she just looked smug. Erik laughed--he supposed it was fair, given that she was expecting him to be the one to give it to Charles.

"It's beautiful, Raven, and I appreciate the thought, but I can't give this to Charles." It was one of those lines he couldn't cross. Doing so would only complicate the issue. In response to Raven's frown, he added, "But I love it. I'll use it."

He could learn to love another notebook. How hard could it be to undo ten years' worth of conditioning?

~*~

Sometime between Sunday night and Monday morning a cold front moved in. Charles stepped outside his apartment, only to turn around and head back in, seeking his coat. He thought seriously about grabbing a scarf, but it wasn't really that cold--it only felt it, the extreme shift in temperature making it feel colder than it actually was.

It seemed a fitting way to mark the transition into October.

He'd spent the bulk of yesterday--after he'd gotten over his high from talking to Erik--obsessively re-reading his musty boarding school notes on Ancient Mariner. He fully intended to get them back on track today--yesterday had been a nice start, but today he would solidify his place in Erik's life.

After last week, it felt nice to enjoy a good mood. Charles' steps felt light, and he took his time crossing Morningside Park. The leaves were fully turned now, vibrant reds and oranges as far as the eye could see. He'd been too distracted by waiting for Erik--and then Erik--to appreciate the foliage in Central Park. He took his time admiring it today.

The cooler weather, too, renewed his spirit, the scent of approaching winter carrying on the wind. Charles breathed deep, enjoying the burn of it against the back of his throat. The semester felt well and truly underway. His research with Hank was going well, his students were getting into a routine and for the first time in forever Charles' personal life seemed destined for good things.

Moira had once accused him of being the most unyielding optimist she had ever met, and Charles supposed that was true, because so much could still go so very wrong, and yet, Charles chose not to focus on that. He chose instead to focus on all the things that could go right--a far less depressing prospect and one that left him with a soft smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

He was still smiling when he made it onto campus.

On impulse--and because he'd regretted the decision last time--he bought two coffees at Brownie's. He was early enough that he'd likely be the first to arrive to Erik's class, and then he could simply leave the coffee on Erik's podium--Erik would know who it was from--without embarrassing Erik in front of his entire class.

What he wasn't expecting was to be the second to arrive in the classroom; he certainly wasn't expecting Erik to have been the first.

Charles stood inside the door, staring at Erik as Erik stared at him. The soft plum of his turtleneck seemed made for his complexion. Charles watched, fascinated, as twin spots of pink bloomed on Erik's cheeks. Erik glanced away, shook his head, and then resolutely turned back to look Charles in the eye. He looked as determined as he did nervous. Charles mastered his most confident smile and entered the room. He came to stand at Erik's side.

"Cappuccino, with whole milk?" Charles said, a little uncertain as he handed over his extra cup. Erik seemed startled, but he took the coffee from Charles' hand.

"How did you know?" he asked.

And huh, Charles thought--he really should have considered that. He suspected _I made sure to check the last cup I saw you drinking_ might sound a little too stalkerish.

"Um... Lucky guess," he tried.

Erik seemed a little skeptical, but he didn't say anything, instead taking a sip and smiling appreciatively.

"Thank you." He hesitated, and then glanced to the door. For one delirious minute Charles thought he might lean forward and press a kiss to the side of Charles' mouth.

It was entirely possible he was spending far too much time fantasizing about Erik.

"What are you drinking?" he asked instead, gesturing to Charles' cup. Charles cocked his head, smile growing amused.

"Latte," he answered, "with skimmed milk." He wondered briefly if this meant Erik was going to start bringing him coffees. He let himself linger in the fantasy for several moments, images of Erik showing up at the lab, coffee in hand. Charles would parade him around the department, smug and proud.

"Good," Erik said, like Charles' hot beverage choice had the potential to be a sticking point.

Charles wanted to ask, but he wasn't entirely certain where to begin--the same could be said for this conversation, because he hadn't really planned on running into Erik before class. He had all sorts of things to say about Ancient Mariner--had made notes and everything, wanting to be sure to touch on the poem's symbolism and imagery. He had an entire speech prepared on the conception of sin, but nothing that could get him through the next five minutes without coming across as a complete and utter idiot.

Fortunately, it was Erik who broke the silence.

"I was thinking about you earlier," he said, though just as Charles' eyebrows shot up, he backtracked. "I mean, I was wondering about your work."

Charles, who was still a little giddy over the thought of Erik thinking about him, immediately thought Erik was asking about his research--which was something no one, save Hank, and perhaps Moira, ever wanted to talk about. _You're in the most boring field ever_ , Scott used to say, shushing Charles whenever he tried to extol the wonders of genetics.

That thought stopped him before he could begin rambling on about mutations and evolution. It occurred to him then that Erik was probably talking about poetry. Charles coloured, embarrassed by his mistake--the last thing he wanted to do was scare Erik off by talking about RNA splicing or genomic imprinting.

"I guess it's mostly about nature," he said, which was probably as good an approximation as he was going to get. Erik smiled broadly at that.

"That would explain why you like the romantics," he said. He hesitated then, glancing again to the door, and then back to Charles. He seemed strangely torn. "Do you write in anything?" he asked.

It took Charles several seconds to figure out what Erik was talking about--remembering then the Moleskine he'd seen on Erik's desk only last week. He shook his head.

"Mostly my laptop," he said, because that was sort of true. Certainly he compiled lab reports and wrote research papers on his laptop.

This wasn't the first time he had lied to a potential partner--he was used to thinking on the fly, filling in details as necessary. It was, however, the first time he'd felt guilty about it. He knew he wasn't the most interesting person in the world--certainly he wasn't as interesting as Erik--but for the first time in his life he wanted someone to know him for him.

He was about to tell Erik exactly that--let him know that he didn't write poetry, but that he had several publications under his name, all in the field of genetics, but that his most creative talent was the ability to colour-code his filing cabinet, and that if the choice were his he'd spend pretty much all of his free time locked away inside his lab--at least, when he wasn't distracted by attractive German poets, that was.

Unfortunately this was exactly when Erik, looking more nervous than Charles could ever remember seeing him, turned away to retrieve something from his bag. When he returned, he was carrying a very nice, very expensive looking journal. He handed it to Charles.

"I'm not really using this, so if you wanted it... I mean, obviously you don't have to take it, I just thought that rather than let it go to waste," he gestured absently, but Charles was too caught up in staring at the book to really notice.

Erik had just given him a present--a very nice, very thoughtful present.

Charles felt like a complete heel, even as his heart fluttered in his chest, eyes growing misty--it was just the chalk dust he told himself. He clutched the journal to his chest and met Erik's eye.

"It's beautiful. I love it. Thank you," he said, deciding then that he would write page after page after page of--probably really bad--poetry just to use the thing. He couldn't remember anyone having given him so thoughtful a gift--and if, technically, the thoughtfulness was due to Charles' misdirection, then Charles had no one to blame but himself. "I really don't know what to say."

"It's nothing. It was just sitting around collecting dust. I figured someone ought to get some use out of it," Erik said. He took another sip of his coffee, shuffling from one foot to the other as he did.

Charles nodded, but he didn't release his hold on the book. Much to horror, he realized his hands were trembling.

It was at that moment that voices drifted in through the open door. Erik, who had relaxed considerably since giving Charles the journal, came instantly to attention. He smiled, almost apologetically, Charles taking that as his hint to find a seat. He'd just sat--book still clenched to his chest--when the first of Erik's actual students came in through the door.

It took the better part of twenty minutes to get himself back under control--he'd tucked Erik's book into his messenger bag, nestled safely between his laptop and a paper on variation in genome-wide mutation rates. He didn't begin dominating the discussion until about the thirty minute mark. When he did, he earned the full of Erik's attention, Erik beaming at him.

The rest of the class passed that way. Charles suspected the other students could have slipped out the door, leaving only him and Erik behind, and Erik probably wouldn't have even noticed. He was so caught up in his lecture--so caught up in Charles' participation--hands moving throughout the air, countenance vibrating with energy, that Charles doubted anything could have distracted his attention.

Charles rather understood how he felt, save that the lecture topic wasn't, at present, what was keeping Charles captive. Erik was a thing of beauty when he lectured.

He supposed that was probably why none of the class took advantage of Erik's distraction to cut out of class.

When the lecture came to an end, Erik lingered at the podium, casting the occasional glance in Charles' direction. Charles took his time packing up his things, waiting until the few students with actual questions had had a chance to do so--Charles may be usurping their class, but he wasn't about to stand in the way of their education.

While he packed away his things--fingers brushing against the spine of Erik's journal--he couldn't help but overhear the conversation going on behind him. He recognized the voices of Kitty and Marie--his defectors. It took several seconds for Charles to realize they were talking about him--undoubtedly they thought their whispered conversation quiet enough to escape his notice.

Charles fought against a threatened smile, mouth pressing into a thin line to avoid laughing outright. They were debating, quite seriously, whether or not Professor Lehnsherr and Professor Xavier were sleeping together.

 _Not yet_ , Charles wanted to turn around and tell them, but that sort of thing would hardly be appropriate. Instead he glanced over his shoulder, caught Marie's eye--they grew wide when she spotted him--and winked. He then slid from his desk, sauntered across the room and smiled brightly at Erik.

~*~

 _Scott Interlude_

"Promise me you'll be safe," Scott said, earning a light chuckle from the other end of the line. They did this every day, and every day he was promised the same thing, but it didn't stop him from saying it.

"I'm always safe, darlin'."

It was as much reassurance as he would ever get, and although it helped, it did nothing to extinguish the seed of worry in his chest. The price, he supposed, for having fallen in love with a cop. At least he was on the afternoon shift these days--when they'd first moved in together, he'd worked the overnight, and Scott would pace the floors of their condo, flinching whenever the phone rang. He'd hear reports on the news about cops injured in the line of duty--or worse, killed--and automatically pick up his phone.

"Well, be extra safe today," Scott said, and then, "I love you."

"I love you, too, babe, so stop worry and go teach those kids of yours."

Scott smiled fondly, and then disconnected the call.

His smile lasted just until he caught sight of the clipboard on his desk. Oh, right. Sometimes he really hated his job. He stood then, tucking the clipboard under his arm, intent on seeking out the twelve people who hadn't bothered to RRSP or decline their invitations.

Unfortunately, the man at the top of the list was their resident visiting professor, Erik Lehnsherr.

There wasn't much Scott was afraid of--hell, he'd heard his boyfriend's cop stories enough to have grown immune to most of humanities ugliness--but Erik Lehnsherr made the hackles stand up on the back of his neck. It wasn't just that Lehnsherr was abrupt and stand-offish, or even that his austerity extended into animosity, but rather that he couldn't get enough of a read on Lehnsherr to know whether he was simply lacking in social skills, or whether he had a pile of bodies stacked in his basement.

There were times when he thought seriously about getting his boyfriend to do a mainframe search on the man, perhaps after Scott had surreptitiously collected a DNA sample.

He really had no idea what Charles saw in the man, but then again, himself excepted, Charles had never had particularly good taste in men.

Lehnsherr's door was open when he arrived outside his office. Scott was surprised to find the man wearing a soft smile. He knocked on the doorframe, Lehnsherr glancing up, his expression somewhat eager. The eagerness, along with his smile, vanished the second he registered who it was--and Scott wondered if perhaps this was just posturing; perhaps Lehnsherr was bothered by Scott's status as Charles' ex. He'd thought he'd made it abundantly clear that that was over, never mind that he'd been seeing someone else for over two years now.

Right now Lehnsherr looked like he wanted to jump across the desk and strangle Scott on the spot. Scott cleared his throat.

"Sorry to bother you, but I'm trying to get a head count for the Poet Laureate dinner, and I was wondering if you intended to attend."

It was a remarkable thing, watching Lehnsherr's expression shift from murderous intent to something very akin to horror. Scott wondered what it was he had said--although perhaps Lehnsherr simply abhorred the thought of attending social functions. Certainly he seemed like the sort to despise them.

"No, I won't be attending, _Professor_ Summers," Erik said, tone even, despite the sudden pallor of his face. Scott had no idea why he had decided to stress his title.

"Right, thank you," Scott said, and since there was no reason to stick around, he bid a hasty retreat.

One down, eleven left to go, and fortunately Ms. Grey was far more pleasant to speak with.

~*~

Charles had office hours on Monday afternoons--or rather, he was supposed to have office hours, but Charles never bothered holding them until the first month of school was over. Today marked the transition point, so he sat in his office, fully expecting no one to show up--his graduate students weren't far enough into the material to have hit any snags, and his undergraduates wouldn't start showing up until closer to midterms.

He busied himself by reviewing some of the results from yesterday's lab work--there were some inconsistencies, which probably meant he and Hank were going to need to rerun some samples. He had just spotted the problem when his phone rang.

His [ringtone](http://www.just-marvel-x-men.com/media-files/1990s-x-men-theme-song.wav) startled him--not many people called Charles, save his mother, but even that was infrequent, and she didn't have his cell number. Most of the people who might get in touch with him--and that pretty much included only Moira and Hank--tended to text. Charles pulled his iPhone out of his lab coat pocket and glanced at the screen.

He was surprised to see _Mystique_ come up on the display.

"Hello?" Charles said, not entirely certain why Raven would be calling him in the middle of the day, or why she used Mystique as a screen name.

"Where are you?" she asked. Charles frowned.

"At the school?" he answered, uncertain.

"Yeah, so am I, but where--what building?" There was an edge of annoyance in her voice.

"Oh," Charles said, realizing what she was driving at. "I'm actually at the Medical Centre, in Hammer, but I can come to you if you'd rather. It might be easier."

"Nope, on my way. Meet me out front." She hung up before Charles could get another word in. He wondered if she even knew where she was going.

Charles pulled his phone away from his ear, stared at it, and then tucked it back into his pocket. He had no idea how close Raven was--he guessed the main campus--but he figured he ought to be waiting for her when she arrived, so he slipped on his winter coat and headed outside.

His office hours were almost over anyway.

The streets were busy with mid-afternoon traffic, the sidewalk outside Hammer's main entrance a bustling place, a street vendor on the corner doing good business as people sought their 3:00 caffeine fix. Charles pulled his coat tighter against the slight chill in the air, and waited.

He didn't have to wait long, though only because Raven showed up on the back of a motorcycle not ten minutes later. She was wrapped around some guy who, after he'd removed his helmet, seemed oddly familiar. A second later Charles placed him as the bartender from the club who had hit on Sean. Charles smiled and made his way towards them.

"Little cold," he said, in reference to the bike, but the bartender merely laughed.

"You Americans are so delicate," he said with a Russian accent. To Raven he said, "You can find your own way back, da?" She nodded, and then handed him back her helmet.

"That's Azazel," she said when he had left, bike tearing down Fort Washington Ave like the devil himself was on his heels. "He owns the club where I work--the one you were at the other night."

"Oh," Charles said, because he hadn't realized club owners tended bar. He wondered if there was anything between them--he had thought the man gay, but then again, Charles tended to assume most men were gay.

"Anyway," Raven said, overriding anything else he might have said. "We need to talk strategy."

Charles wasn't too sure what she meant by that, but he suspected it had to do with Erik. He found himself smiling broadly, earning a raised eyebrow from Raven even as she dug a pack of smokes out of her jacket pocket and set about getting one lit.

"He bought me a journal," Charles said, wanting then to drag her inside and show her it--coo over the quality of the paper and the softness of the leather cover. Raven's eyes went wide. She smiled.

"He gave it to you? He wasn't going to," she said, exhaling smoke over her shoulder to avoid blowing it in Charles' face. Charles still coughed, suddenly glad that Erik didn't share her habit.

"You knew about it?" Charles asked. Raven merely smiled around the cigarette in her mouth.

Their conversation seemed to remind her of something else, because she grunted and then began digging around in her pockets--he'd never seen her carry a purse--pulling out her iPhone a second later. She stared at it intently for several seconds, obviously searching for something. When she found what she was looking for, she [handed it over](http://www.nekosmuse.com/voice.html).

Charles stared at the screen for several long minutes.

"You took a picture of one of his poems?" he asked, thinking in that moment that he might just love this woman as much as he loved her brother--though in an entirely different way.

"It was either that or photocopy it, and Erik rarely lets the book out of his sight, so this was far easier," she said.

Charles turned back to the poem.

He'd thought Erik giving him a journal had made him giddy, but this--this was overwhelming. Charles felt a lump form in the back of his throat, his hand shaking as he read Erik's words again and again and again. It should have probably made him feel guilty, invading Erik's privacy like this, but he was too overwhelmed by the idea of someone--of Erik--writing poetry about him.

"I'm someone to believe in," he said, because what else was there to say? He wanted that--wanted Erik to bare his soul, to let Charles into his world so that they could share everything with each other.

"This morning he called you his muse," Raven said. Charles glanced away from the phone, startled.

"His muse?"

Raven nodded, smile growing broad. It was nothing like Erik's smile--he had never seen so dissimilar a pair of siblings--though just as vibrant. "He's written at least half a dozen poems about you so far, and that's more than he's written in years. He was talking about putting together a collection. I told him he should dedicate it to you."

It was too much for Charles to hear--too startling--his knees going weak, so he sat down on the edge of one of the red brick planter boxes that ringed the sidewalk outside the towering building.

Raven tossed her butt onto the sidewalk, and then came to sit next to him.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" she asked. "I thought you were an English guy."

Charles frowned at that, because surely Erik had told her--although, Erik did seem more of the strong silent type, so it was entirely possible he didn't spend a lot of time filling Raven in on the details of Charles' background. Still, he wasn't used to anyone not knowing who he was.

Being an Xavier in New York kind of precluded that.

"No," he said, "genetics."

Raven looked surprised to hear that. "That's a PhD, right?" she asked, which seemed odd, because he didn't know anyone on track to full professor who didn't have a PhD. Perhaps things were structured differently in Germany.

"Yes," he said, and then, because he liked talking about his work and Raven seemed the type of person who might actually listen, he began telling her about his latest project.

"My lab partner and I are currently involved in stem cell research," he said, well aware that it was still a controversial subject. "It's a very fascinating avenue of study, because stem cell treatments hold the potential to change the face of human disease. Modern medicine is by far the greatest evolutionary tool we have control of."

Raven didn't look like she had particularly understood anything Charles had said, but she was listening intently, and hadn't asked him to stop talking. Charles pressed on.

When he was done explaining his goal of engineering mutated stem cells in an effort to combat pre-existing genetic disorders, Raven asked, "When do expect to be finished?"

Charles considered--because answering the question was probably impossible. "It all depends on the research, I suppose," Charles confessed, "though I'm hoping sometime in the spring." At the very least he hoped he and Hank would have a paper out for peer review that spring.

Raven, who was smiling again, nodded like she approved of Charles' research schedule, said, "Good. That's good."

And then she launched into an explanation of exactly how Charles was going to spend the next few weeks seducing Erik. Apparently it involved lots of chance meetings and pseudo dates until Erik got past whatever it was that was making him hesitate--and when Charles asked, Raven had only said, _His asshole ex kind of messed him up, but it's not my place to say anything more_ , which only served to make Charles that much more determined.


	12. Chapter 12

It was a shock to stumble into his office after his Critical Methods class and find Raven sitting at his desk. Erik paused inside the door frame, load of papers and books balanced precariously in his hands, and stared. Raven quirked a smile.

"Surprise?" she said.

Erik arched an eyebrow at that, but he stepped into the room, setting his pile down on the edge of his desk--and damn Janos for catching the first flu of the season, leaving Erik to lug around his own things.

"Is everything all right?" Erik asked. Unusual behavior from Raven demanded the question. He'd found out the hard way--more than once--that ignoring these shifts was never a good idea.

"Relax, I'm fine. I just thought I'd come see where you work, since I haven't done that yet." She glanced around his office. "It's nice--a little Spartan, but nice."

Erik chuckled at that, because if he had it his way their entire apartment would be furnished as minimally as possible. Every picture, every knickknack, every throw was Raven's doing. She had taken what would otherwise have been a utilitarian space and had turned it into a home.

"You want the grand [tour](http://www.columbia.edu/home/about_columbia/tour/01.html)?" Erik asked, because he had nothing else on the schedule for today, and even though it was absurdly cold outside, showing Raven the campus would at the very least allow him to postpone putting together his midterms--another reason he was unimpressed by Janos' sudden illness.

"Sounds like fun," Raven said. She stepped out from behind his desk and shrugged into her coat. Erik caught the scent of stale cigarette smoke.

"I thought you quit," he said, collecting the few things he wanted to take home with him. Erik had lost count of the number of times she had quit and started again. It was a mark of her respect for him that she didn't smoke around him--not that she tried to hide it, but she kept the habit discrete, and Erik appreciated it, if only because Shaw had smoked and the smell tended to trigger memories.

"And I thought you weren't going to give Charles that notebook," she countered.

It was a fair point. Erik coloured. "I didn't mean to. It just sort of happened," he said before he registered what Raven had said. When he did, he frowned at her. "How did you know?"

Raven let a mysterious little smile creep across her face. Erik recognized it as the one she wore whenever she thought she had done something exceedingly clever. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"I just know you," she said, smile still firmly in place.

He had no idea what to say to that--she was obviously lying, but Raven kept so few secrets from him that he let it pass. He pulled on his coat and scarf--Raven had teased him mercilessly this morning for donning it, but he was used to Heidelberg weather, and save for January and February, the temperature rarely dipped below freezing--and led them out of the building.

Erik didn't actually know much about the campus--save the names of a few buildings--so he mostly kept quiet, content to simply walk Raven around and let her take in the sights. The architecture, while nowhere near as old as in Germany, was still stunning--some of the best in the city, Erik thought. He took her through Low Plaza, where Raven tilted her head back and breathed deep the chilly autumn air. It was rare that she was so relaxed. Erik smiled to see it.

"How did you get here, anyway?" Erik asked after several minutes of comfortable silence. Their apartment was hardly within walking distance, and Raven outright refused to take public transportation. If he thought she wouldn't trash it inside a week, he'd force her to get her license and then buy her a car.

"Azazel gave me a lift," she said, shrugging non-committedly. Erik froze. Raven, who had taken several steps forward before realizing Erik wasn't at her side, turned and arched an eyebrow.

"The Russian guy?" Erik asked, hackles rising. The last thing he needed to worry about was some asshole thinking he could take advantage of Erik's sister.

Raven turned and crossed to where Erik was standing, giving him an exasperated look. "He's actually a pretty decent guy, Erik," she said.

Erik shook his head, because that wasn't the point.

"Tell me you're not dating this guy. You barely know him," Erik said, because Raven dated even less than he did, but every time she did it resulted in months of regression and flashbacks. The prospect was terrifying.

Raven, who was practically glaring now, grabbed Erik's arm and dragged him over to one of the plaza's fountains so that they were no longer blocking the late-afternoon crowds.

"I'm not dating him," she said. "We're occasionally hanging out, and for the record, I've talked to my shrink about it and she thinks it's a good idea. I can't just have you in my life, Erik. I need friends of my own. What am I going to do when you and Charles hook up and then go off and live happily ever after? I don't think he's going to appreciate always having your sister around."

Erik shook his head at that, because for one thing it was a little presumptuous, for another, he wasn't about to abandon Raven for anyone.

"First, you're jumping the gun a little, and second, if he's not okay with you being around then he wasn't meant to be." He'd hurt Raven too much during his relationship with Shaw to give any other answer.

"That doesn't mean he's going to always want me around. You two need some alone time," she said, shaking her head and holding up a hand when Erik tried to protest. "I ran into him on the way to see you, you know."

Erik promptly forgot every objection he had to Raven spending time with Azazel, his heart stuttering in his chest.

"Did you speak to him?" he asked, half terrified of what Raven might have said. He trusted her--absolutely--but she wasn't exactly known for her discretion.

"We exchanged pleasantries, though don't worry, I didn't tell him you were head over heels in love with him."

Erik tutted at that, because it wasn't precisely true. Certainly he was a little enamoured, maybe even a bit obsessed, definitely a lot smitten, but head over heels was a terrible metaphor.

"We also talked about his work," Raven continued, and Erik's breath caught at that; because it was entirely possible Raven had done what he hadn't yet worked up the nerve to do.

"And?" He was well aware he was fishing.

Raven paused long enough to perch on the rounded edge of the fountain. Erik did the same. Raven shot him a winning smile, and then said, "You'll be happy to know he's working on his PhD and will be finished this spring."

Erik took a moment to process that--and then another moment to smile stupidly once he'd absorbed what that meant. The prospect of waiting years had been agony, but this--a few scant months--he could handle this. Certainly he would have preferred this winter, but he could manage the spring. It also gave him ample time to reciprocate Columbia's attempts at recruitment.

"But," and here Raven let her features turn conspiratorial, "I'm not sure you have to wait quite that long."

Erik immediately balked at that, because they had had this conversation and PhD student or no PhD student he was still a student. Erik wasn't going to cross that line until they were on the same footing.

Raven shook her head. "You do realize he's not in the English department, don't you?" she said.

And this Erik knew--because that much he'd at least checked. He hadn't checked to find out what department Charles was with, though only because he suspected walking into the Registrar's office and asking for details on a student outside his department would be viewed as both strange and inappropriate. He also wasn't about to start stalking Charles.

Still, he was curious, and kept meaning to ask, but his brain rather had a tendency to short-circuit whenever Charles was around--hence the notebook this morning.

"You asked?" Erik asked, already knowing her answer.

"He's with the Genetics Department."

Of all the things Erik was expecting Raven to say, that wasn't it. He thought perhaps one of the languages--some of his more guilt-worthy fantasies involved Charles whispering Latin into Erik's ear--or maybe philosophy, possibly even history--Charles looked like the history type.

The sciences hadn't even made his list.

He tried to picture Charles bent over a microscope--oh, God, it was a fantastic image--hair pulled back, lab coat draped over his shoulders. He was probably incredibly smart--smarter than Erik had first assumed, because it was one thing to analyze poetry in a fourth year course; another entirely to complete a PhD in genetics.

Suddenly Charles seemed very much out of Erik's league.

"Seriously, Erik, it's not like he's even on the same campus," Raven was saying, but her reassurances did nothing to settle the uneasy feeling in his stomach when he even contemplated such a thing--something else he could throw at the feet of Sebastian Shaw.

"It's not open for discussion, Raven," he said, and then, before she could offer any further rationale, added, "Come on, let's go home, see about an early dinner."

~*~

Charles sat cross-legged in the middle of his bed, the scent of Thai take-out still lingering in the apartment. He had Erik's leather journal open in front of him, blank page staring at him mockingly. He really didn't know the first thing about writing poetry.

Sitting next to it was a pad of lined paper. He'd scribbled several verses--at least he thought they were verses--on the paper, only to scratch them out. Inevitably the page would end up crumpled into a ball and then tossed in the waste bin--alongside the first sheet he'd already filled in and then torn out.

It was probably ridiculous how much thought he was putting into this. Surely he could simply avoid the topic of conversation until he found a way to tell Erik that, no, sorry, he didn't actually write poetry.

Inspiration, he suspected, was what he needed, so Charles climbed off the bed and padded over to the window. He drew the blind and looked outside--nature, he'd told Erik, but the dark cityscape did nothing for him. He pulled the blind back down and then began a circuit of his apartment.

It didn't take long. Charles didn't own much--a bed, an oversized chair that was constantly covered in books, several bookshelves, all filled to capacity, and a couple of dressers--a necessity in a space with only one closet. His kitchen was just as sparse, a handful of appliances--mostly designed for reheating food--and a couple boxes of cereal that wouldn't fit in his cupboards. His dishes were second hand, bought at a local thrift shop. It had amused him, thinking his mother might one day be forced to use them, but she rarely visited, and when she did, she refused to set foot anywhere near his apartment.

He didn't even own a television set.

He kept few personal effects--save those related to his academic career. The ones he did have he kept in the bottom drawer of his main dresser. There were pictures, mostly of himself, sometimes alongside an ex or ex interest. He'd had few friends growing up--although it might have been more accurate to say he'd had no friends growing up--and only a handful throughout university. There were pictures of him with Moira, and a couple of him with Hank. They sat nestled inside an old tea box--though Charles kept meaning to transfer them into a photo album.

In another box--this one a shortbread tin--he kept a few mementos from his numerous relationships. There was the watch that Scott had given him--the style completely ill-suited to Charles' tastes--and the poppy from the lapel of a guy he'd picked up on Remembrance Day last year. There was a Canadian coin from that guy who had vomited over the side of his bed, and a hand stamp from the bouncer at Hellfire. And, of course, there were Erik's lecture notes.

The drawer was also where he was keeping Erik's binder of poetry. If he was lucky, Erik would never, ever ask for it back, and it would make its way into Charles' permanent collection.

There was also another binder, one that Charles tended to ignore whenever possible. It occurred to him, though, that people wrote poetry about the losses they'd experience, so it was entirely possible this was the inspiration he was looking for.

He pulled the binder out of the drawer and carried it back to the bed.

Inside were dozens of newspaper clippings and magazine covers, all featuring Brian Xavier. There was the Time magazine cover and article. There was the People profile. There were interviews and press releases.

And there were the reports of his death.

He read the [New York Times](http://www.nekosmuse.com/nytdad.jpg) clipping for the first time in years. It still sounded so clinical--so clean. Self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, like it was an abstract concept that could be summed up with only a handful of words.

In reality, his father had taken a Smith and Wesson 586, stuck the barrel into his mouth, and blown his brains out. They had spattered against the wall behind his desk. Undoubtedly, it had been very, very messy.

Not that Charles had blamed him--still didn't. His world was falling apart and the only thing keeping him tethered was his emotionally unavailable wife and a precocious child who did nothing but ask questions. Charles might have blown his brains out, too.

This was doing absolutely nothing to inspire poetry. In fact, the only thing it was inspiring was the urge to drink himself into an early grave. Either that or head out and find someone warm and willing to share his bed for the night.

There was a reason Charles tended to ignore this binder. He tucked the clippings away and returned it to the drawer, and then gave up on poetry writing for the night.

He called Moira instead.

"He gave me a journal," he said as soon as she answered.

She gave a long-suffering sigh and then said, "Yes, I know, you showed me. Twice."

She obviously didn't understand.

"To write poetry in, Moira."

There was a long pause, during which Charles contemplated his toenails. They were due for a cut. When Moira spoke again, it was with cautious trepidation, as though half afraid she might inadvertently make Charles cry--which, really, had only happened the one time, and he'd been drunk at the time, so it hardly counted.

"But you don't write poetry," she said.

And of course Charles knew that. That was the whole point. He loved her dearly and all, but sometimes talking to Moira was like talking to a brick wall.

"I know," Charles said. He could almost picture Moira rubbing at the back of her neck, forehead furrowed as she tried to work out what Charles was driving at. He took pity on her. "I told him I did, because he asked if I did, and then it just came out, and now I'm sitting here looking at his journal--which is gorgeous by the way--and trying to figure out how to write poetry, except, I don't write poetry."

There was a long moment of silence, in which Charles thought he was going to have to start from scratch and explain this all over again. Finally Moira coughed.

"So you can either tell him you lied, that you're sorry, and then give him back the journal, or you can tuck it away and hope he never brings the subject up again."

"Do you think that'll work?" Charles asked.

Moira groaned. "I meant you should do the first, because the second is idiotic. How do you get yourself into these messes? Really, Charles. I'm sorry, but I have to go. Sean's coming over and I'm not even dressed. Could you, for once, just try to be normal?"

Charles was fairly certain they both knew the answer to that, but he apologized all the same, and let Moira disconnect their call, Moira promising they'd talk more in the morning. For a long time after Charles merely sat in the middle of his bed, alternating between staring at his phone and at Erik's journal. He needed another opinion, but aside from Hank--who would undoubtedly run screaming from any such conversation--Charles had no one.

~*~

The next morning he left for the school with Erik's journal tucked carefully back into his messenger bag. He had plans on going straight to Erik's office--of giving him back the journal and apologizing for having lied--but chickened out at the last minute.

It was how he came to be sitting on the steps of Low Library, ignoring the cold and tracing a finger along the journal's spine when his phone chirped.

[ ](http://www.nekosmuse.com/eta10.jpg)

Charles blinked at the message for several seconds before realizing what Raven wanted him to do--he should have known instantly, their conversation yesterday ending with Raven's promise to give him a head's up whenever she knew where Erik was going to be.

Because now Charles had Erik's sister stalking her brother for him.

He might actually deserve a medal for that.

It was dumb luck, more than anything--actually it was mostly Charles lurking around in hopes of bumping into Erik--that saw Charles on the main campus instead of at the Medical Center. Still, he ran--literally ran--to get to the [Hungarian Pastry Shop](http://www.wikicu.com/Hungarian_Pastry_Shop) ahead of Erik. He was winded when he got there, but Erik was nowhere to be seen, so Charles got into line--letting people ahead of him whenever he seemed in danger of reaching the counter--and focused on getting his breathing under control.

The shop was usually busy, and today was no exception--even the outdoor seating was in use, despite the chill in the air. He spotted Erik coming down Amsterdam Ave., hand tucked in his pocket, [scarf draped around his neck](http://www.nekosmuse.com/erikscarf.jpg). He looked... delicious, Charles thought, feeling more than a little giddy. The door the shop opened, a handful of undergraduates coming inside. Charles waved them to the front of the line, and then took up residence behind them, pretending he was concentrating on the menu above the counter. He heard the door chime open a second time and willed himself not to tense--or turn around--as Erik entered the shop.

He heard rather than saw Erik pause--undoubtedly he recognized Charles--and for one brief moment Charles was terrified Erik was going to turn around and head back the way he had come. Erik's hand on his shoulder was a genuine surprise.

Charles turned, heart lodged in his throat--and God, up close Erik was positively edible this morning, never mind that he was still _touching_ him. Erik offered him a slightly awkward half smile and then dropped his hand. Charles grinned.

"Erik, hello," he said, shifting aside so that Erik could join him in the line. Had anyone else entered the shop, Charles might have waved them ahead too, just to prolong this moment.

"Early lunch, or late breakfast?" Erik asked. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Charles. Charles took it as a victory, though Erik's journal was a heavy weight in his bag.

"Mid-morning snack, I suppose," Charles said. The people ahead of them collected their coffees and pastries and cleared the line. Charles shrugged, and then stepped forward.

He ordered a coffee and a chocolate croissant, and then, on impulse, turned to Erik. "What are you having?" he asked, and then froze when Erik hesitated, indecision clear on his features.

For a moment Charles thought he'd crossed a line, that this would be the point where Erik would balk; where Erik would again apologize and tell Charles they couldn't date and, damn it, why had he opened his stupid mouth?

"A coffee sounds good, and maybe some strudel," Erik said, though he still sounded hesitant--that and a little awkward, like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. Charles smiled and placed his order.

"You want to share a table?" he asked when they had their pastries, and then, because Erik still looked ready to bolt, added, "there aren't many free."

Erik nodded, as though Charles' argument on economy of space had reluctantly swayed him. He'd drawn himself tight, so that he occupied as little space as possible, sitting exactly opposite from Charles, chair pushed back so that not even their knees brushed under the tiny table. Charles was a little disappointed, but Erik was sitting with him--which totally counted as a date as far as Charles was concerned--so he took it as another victory.

For a while they didn't talk, Erik eating his strudel--with a fork and knife Charles noted--Charles making a complete mess with his croissant. When he had finished, he glanced up to find Erik watching him with an amused smile, but before Charles could ask, Erik mimicked wiping the side of his mouth.

Charles brought his thumb to his face and rubbed at the corner of his mouth, thumb coming away covered in chocolate. He blushed--could feel it spread all the way down his neck--grabbed a handful of napkins and wiped hastily at his mouth. Erik laughed.

"Raven does that, too," he said. Charles wasn't certain if being compared to Erik's sister was a good or bad thing. He offered a lopsided smile.

"My mother always abhorred my table manners. She even sent me to a finishing school, but it didn't really take." Charles shrugged. In truth, it might have took, save that he'd had no incentive to follow their instructions. It was far more enjoyable to watch his mother squirm. She never took more notice of him than she did when he was eating--even if it was only to sit and scowl in his direction.

Erik was smiling now, like the little tidbit from Charles' childhood was somehow precious. Charles blushed again--he really needed to work on that; certainly no one else had ever made him blush so readily--and took a sip of his coffee.

The shop was steadily filling the closer they got to the lunch hour, so now Erik had to push his chair in, knees brushing against Charles'--and Charles delighted in seeing Erik's cheeks colour when they did--just to make room.

As if to dispel his awkwardness, Erik coughed.

"Raven mentioned that she ran into you yesterday," he said.

Charles momentarily froze, because did Erik know? Certainly he wouldn't be here if he thought Charles some kind of creepy stalker--and Charles wasn't so far gone that he didn't realize that was exactly what he was. No, undoubtedly Raven had only mentioned it in passing, which meant that Erik was just bringing it up because they'd been talking about Raven not two minutes ago.

"Yes, though I'm afraid I bored her terribly," Charles said, because even if Raven hadn't revealed any details from their conversation, they _had_ discussed Charles' research.

"I'm not sure if she was bored or confused. She was never one for science," Erik said, and then, to Charles' surprise, said, "she wasn't too clear on exactly what it is you are researching."

It was as open an invitation as Charles had ever received. His head grew dizzy at the thought of sharing his work, his passion, with Erik. Before Charles could stop himself, he was talking.

He told Erik about stem cell research and the advances that had been made in the past decade. He told Erik about the tremendous potential for using these cells in the treatment of disease. He talked about forced mutation-- _Mutation is what took us from singled celled organisms to the dominant form of reproductive life on this planet_ and how applying something as simple as evolution could theoretically allow them to pinpoint and treat diseases even before they manifested.

He talked far too long, and far too quickly, becoming animated in a way that always had Moira telling him to _Just take a breath and breathe, Charles_. Then he stuttered to a stop because Erik was still watching him and Charles had just geeked out in front of him.

Horror surged in his chest, even as his face flushed scarlet. Charles willed the floor to open beneath him.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry. That was probably all really boring and silly and, I swear, I don't usually go on like that, and it won't..."

He stopped, though only because Erik had held up a hand.

"It's fine. Good, even." Here Erik ducked his head. When he glanced back up there was an edge of vulnerability in his eyes. "Passion's a good look on you," he said, looking for all the world like admitting as much had terrified him.

Charles froze. There was no other way to process what Erik had said. No one had ever complimented him on his passion before. It was always, _Calm down, Charles_ , or _Slow down, Charles_ , or _For God's sake, sit down and be quiet, Charles_. Erik was looking at him like Charles was a wonder worth capturing on film.

"Still, I'm sure it's nowhere near as interesting as poetry," Charles said, aiming for self-deprecation. It came out sounding like self-pity.

To his surprise, Erik shook his head.

"On the contrary; at least you're doing something that matters. You're saving lives. There's nothing more important than that. I think it's brilliant." He flushed even as it said it, like bestowing the compliment had cost him the last reserve of his nerve.

Charles sat, a little stunned, and more than a little moved. He wanted to crawl across the table and climb into Erik's lap--too soon, he told himself. He wanted to run off with this man and keep him forever and ever.

"Genetics and poetry, thought; kind of an odd combination," Erik said with nervous chuckle, like he was purposely trying to redirect their conversation towards something lighter.

The giddy smile that was threatening to break across Charles' face vanished in an instant. His mood plummeted, because how could he keep lying to Erik after everything Erik had just said?

"What?" Erik asked, even as Charles said, "Oh, God, I'm so sorry."

Erik looked confused, and more than a little hurt, like Charles was going to outright reject Erik's acceptance. He looked like he wanted to get up from the table and flee the shop. Charles glanced to his bag, where it sat on the floor, and then back to Erik. Resigning himself to his fate--and hoping Erik would accept his show of faith--Charles retrieved the bag, and then pulled out the journal.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't write poetry. I don't even know why I said I did. I guess I just thought..." He shrugged, because there was really no way to put what he'd thought into words. He'd thought Erik might like him better. He'd thought it might make him more interesting. He'd thought it might give them something in common.

The truth was, he hadn't really thought.

Erik didn't say anything, but he was staring at Charles like he couldn't quite figure out where Charles had come from, or what he was talking about. Charles' heart sank. He held the journal across the table.

"I should probably give this back," he said. It physically hurt to do so. "It's beautiful, and the nicest thing anyone's ever given me, but it was given under false pretenses, and I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Erik's expression was impossible to read. If Charles had to guess, he would say Erik was processing. Charles sat, the arm holding the book shaking almost uncontrollable, his entire body tense as he waited for Erik to stand from the table and leave the room.

Instead, Erik let out a little huff of air--that for the life of him Charles couldn't decipher--and then reached for the journal. To Charles' surprise, instead of taking it, he pushed it back towards Charles.

"You should keep it anyway," Erik said. He smiled then, a little confused, but a little fond, too, so Charles drew the journal to his chest and held it there, willing himself not to cry.

"I..." Charles tried, but it was impossible to speak around the lump in his throat.

Erik took a sip of his coffee--which was undoubtedly cold by this point--and said, "I'm actually more impressed than I was. For a scientist, who doesn't write poetry, you have remarkable insight into the art."

Charles had no idea what to say to that, but Erik wasn't leaving, so he did the only thing he could. He clutched Erik's journal to his chest and excused himself.

And then promptly fled into the bathroom.

As retreats went it was probably as undignified as they came. He told himself he just needed a minute--that knowing Erik didn't mind hearing about his work and having Erik forgive him for lying within a ten minute period was too much for anyone to process. Mostly he just didn't want Erik to see him hyperventilating.

He set the journal down on top of the paper towel dispenser, and then splashed his face with cold water, breathing steadily through his nose until his heart stopped racing.

"It's fine," he told his reflection. "You told him, and he's fine, so it's fine."

When he'd repeated the mantra several times over, he retrieved Erik's journal--except it was his now, wasn't it?--and returned to the table.

He found Erik bent over a [paper napkin, scribbling furiously](http://www.nekosmuse.com/edge.html). Charles approached him cautiously, catching enough of the poem--and it was a poem--to know that it was about him. Any lingering doubt he might have had vanishing in an instant.

He'd followed Moira's advice. He'd told Erik the truth and Erik had forgiven him. More than that, Erik seemed genuinely interested in him--the real him. And best of all, Charles no longer had to worry about figuring out how to write poetry.

He cleared his throat, Erik glancing up, even as he half covered what he'd been working on. He looked set to ignore their earlier awkwardness, so Charles mustered his courage and asked, "Do you have to get going? Or do you have time for another cup?"

Erik hesitated for half a second before nodding.

"I'll buy," he said, slipping the napkin into his pocket as he stood. "You save our table."

Charles nodded, and then watched him leave, giddy smile spreading across his face. Erik was buying him a coffee, while Charles saved _their_ table.


	13. Chapter 13

Erik paused outside the door to his apartment, a pungent, earthy food smell catching his nose. He breathed deep, stomach rumbling--he hadn't had anything to eat since his coffee with Charles--and then promptly panicked.

Raven was cooking again.

He fumbled with his keys in his haste, needing three tries to get the door unlocked. Once he was inside, he dropped the papers he'd brought home with him on the floor, and then rushed towards the kitchen. He made it as far as the threshold between the hall and the living room before he caught sight of Raven, standing in the kitchen, her hip pressed against the counter. She wasn't cooking.

Azazel was.

Erik tensed, even as Raven caught his eye and smiled.

"Azazel's teaching me to cook," she said, grinning then, like she had high hopes that Azazel could do what Erik had never been able to--and Erik had tried, but teaching Raven to cook required patience the likes of which he would never have.

Azazel, who was stirring something on the stove, waved a spoon in Erik's direction.

"It is possible the task is impossible," he said, shrugging.

"Hey, I'm not doing too badly," Raven said. Azazel chuckled, which made Raven smile at him, comfortable in a way Raven was only ever comfortable with Erik. Erik tried to process that, and found he couldn't.

"You didn't even know what a beet was," Azazel said. He moved about the kitchen like he belonged there--like he'd spent his boyhood hanging from his mother's apron strings.

Raven tutted. "It's not like they're an important vegetable. So what if I'd never seen them before."

Azazel shook his head. He wasn't looking in her direction, still intent on his task, but Erik could tell she had the full of his attention.

"You can't make Borscht without beets," he said, like this explained everything. Raven laughed, and then glanced to Erik--who still hadn't moved. She pushed away from the counter, and slowly made her way over to him.

"Is this okay?" she asked when she got to him, speaking under her breath so that only Erik would hear. Erik, who was still a little shocked at seeing someone else in their apartment--that had never happened, not in all the years he'd been living with Raven--nodded.

Azazel was doing his best to ignore them, but Erik could tell by the set of his shoulders that he was expecting to be thrown out. Erik swallowed, and then said, "It's fine," loud enough for him to hear.

Raven beamed at him then, though her expression suggested that she was still a little concerned. She should have known better--there was nothing Erik would deny her, and at least this way he could keep an eye on them, ensure Azazel's intentions were honourable.

"You're not going to learn anything talking to me," Erik said, shooing Raven back into the kitchen. He nodded in Azazel's direction, earning a tight, almost apologetic smile, and then headed back to the door to collect his papers.

He brought them into his office, pausing there to exhale, still completely thrown by this turn of events. He was used to their routine--it had never varied, regardless of where they lived. Raven seeking out friends--people outside of Erik--was new. He wondered if this was entirely his doing. If Raven felt like she needed to show Erik she was capable of living without him. Was this because of Charles, he wondered.

He tossed his papers on the desk, and then pulled his satchel over his head, rooting through it to find his notebook. He'd intended to cook them dinner and then sit on the couch and transfer the piece he'd written over coffee into his book. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do now.

Certainly he'd eat dinner, but they had never had company before--not even when Erik was with Shaw, Shaw always preferring Erik to come to him. Erik wasn't even entirely certain they owned the right bowls for Borscht--did Borscht require special bowls?

When he'd avoided the inevitable for as long as he thought he could manage without seeming antisocial, he headed back to the kitchen, where he found Azazel guiding Raven's hand over the pot. He was standing just to her left, the only part of him touching her two of his fingers, where they rested on the back of her wrist. Erik wondered if he had instinctively known she didn't like to be touched, or if she had told him. Raven told so few people.

Even separated as they were, Erik felt like he was witnessing an intensely personal moment, so he moved silently into the living room, sinking down on the corner of the couch furthest from the kitchen. Raven was laughing again, saying something about the dish smelling like dirt, to which Azazel told her she had no taste.

Erik did his best to ignore them, pulling out his notebook instead, but rather than copying the piece from earlier, he found himself jotting down [something new](http://www.nekosmuse.com/headspace.html).

It came quick and furious, something that hadn't happened to him before. He was used to coaxing his words, fighting them tooth and nail until they settled on the page. There was so much in his head these days it was all he could do to get the words onto paper before they vanished. He'd never, not in the whole of his career, been as prolific as he was right now. He couldn't remember a time when he'd written so much, in so short a span of time. Not even Shaw had inspired such creation.

It was Charles' doing, Erik knew. Even now, the thought of the man brought a soft smile to Erik's face. He thought back to their coffee; to his initial panic, and then the quiet acceptance that he could speak with Charles outside of a classroom without becoming his nightmare.

He'd panicked again after, though only for a little while. He'd been so caught up in the moment that, at the time, it hadn't felt like he'd crossed a line, but later he'd considered that maybe he had--that maybe he was justifying what had been, in hindsight, far too intimate a meeting given their respective positions. He'd convinced himself then that the entire affair had been grossly inappropriate.

But then he'd remembered the look on Charles' face as he'd offered Erik back the journal that was so clearly meant for him. He thought perhaps he might have been angrier, learning that Charles had lied, but at the time he'd been so relieved that Charles wasn't rejecting him--as he had initially thought--that his anger had dissipated into quiet acceptance.

He'd known then that he had not crossed a line; that he had told Charles point blank that they couldn't date, that he had no reason to feel guilty for a chance meeting and a shared table.

Dr. Frost, he suspected, would be proud of him.

A sharp bark of a laugh echoed from the kitchen. It drew Erik from the memory. He glanced up to find Raven and Azazel tossing little hunks of bread at one another. When Raven caught his eye, she immediately stopped, blushing slightly--something he'd never seen her do.

"It's ready," she called out, nodding to the small table that sat in the far corner of their living room. It was already set, Erik noted with surprise--and apparently their cereal bowls were fine for serving Borscht. Raven gave Azazel a look, grabbed the bowl of bread pieces, and then headed towards it.

Erik closed his notebook, snapping the elastic around it, and then went to join her at the table. Azazel came in after, carrying the soup pot in a gloved hand, ladle at the ready.

~*~

Charles didn't see Moira until Wednesday afternoon.

She'd been away Tuesday, Charles too preoccupied by the journal, and then his coffee with Erik, and then his giddy happiness, to notice until Tuesday evening, and by then he'd simply assumed she was sick. He'd meant to call, but Hank had been especially excited about the direction of their research, Charles soon swept up in tests and samples.

He'd left Erik's Wednesday morning class feeling more than a little giddy--Erik had outright flirted with him today, even earning them a few snickers from the back of the class. Charles had stayed afterwards, and they'd talked about the advancement of Charles' project and Erik's excitement about starting Byron next week. He was still feeling giddy when he made it back to the Medical Center, humming just under his breath as he headed inside.

He got maybe a foot into the lobby before a familiar voice stopped him. Charles turned to find Moira heading towards him.

"Are you all right?" he asked when she got to his side. He was half tempted to ask if it was anything catchy--the last thing he wanted was a cold.

"Sorry, fine," she said, and then smiled, expression searching. "But shouldn't I be asking you that?"

Charles frowned, needing several seconds--during which they boarded the elevator and began their journey up to their offices--to process what she was talking about. Their last conversation came back to him then. He smiled.

"You'll be happy to know I followed your advice. I told him the truth, apologized, and offered him the journal back."

Moira seemed startled to hear that. Her gaze became piercing. "And?" she asked, though it would have been impossible to misread Charles' good mood.

"And he told me to keep it and then bought me a coffee. We're practically dating."

Moira raised an eyebrow at that. "Dating dating, or Charles dating?" she asked. Charles frowned.

"Thank you for that," he said, feeling more than a little vindicated when Moira ducked her head, cheeks flushing in her embarrassment.

"You're right, sorry. And I'm sorry for Monday night, too. I was a little preoccupied, but it was no excuse to brush you off like that."

Moira did things like that; apologized for offenses she hadn't actually caused. Charles might have wanted her advice, but she was right--he was being an idiot. He'd worried so much over the poetry that it hadn't occurred to him just how beneficial admitting the truth would be. Opening up to Erik had created an entirely new bond between them, and Charles probably had Moira to thank for it.

"It's fine," he said, stepping out of the elevator and into the hall. He followed Moira towards her office. When he got there, he claimed a space on her couch and asked, "Are you going to tell me what was preoccupying you?"

Moira didn't say anything, instead pulling off her gloves and bringing up a hand, even as a blush spread across her cheeks. Charles blinked at the rock on her finger.

"He proposed," he said, more than a little overwhelmed by the idea. It was startling to realize that he'd reached that age; the age where the people he knew were getting married--and here he was, only just sorting out his love life.

"He did," Moira said, and she looked worried, like she was honestly afraid of Charles' reaction. Charles rolled his eyes and then pushed himself off the couch, crossing the room to Moira's side.

"That's fantastic," he said, genuine smile creeping onto his face even as he drew her into a fierce hug. He felt his bottom lip waiver, but his eyes stayed pleasantly dry. Moira, on the other hand, tucked her face into his shoulder and set about ruining his shirt.

Well, that would explain why she'd taken the day off yesterday.

"Sorry," she said when she pulled away, Charles glancing briefly to the mess of tears and mascara she'd left on his shoulder.

"It'll wash," he said, grinning at her then. "Does this mean I get to be your man of honour?"

Moira laughed at that, but she nodded. She still seemed incapable of forming complete sentences, so Charles grabbed her hand and began a thorough examination of the ring. Sean, it seemed, had good taste--and more importantly, he hadn't tried to pawn off a cubic zirconia on her.

"I have an excellent idea for the bachelorette party," Charles said when he was done with the ring, letting Moira's hand fall back to her side. She immediately tensed.

"We are not going to a strip club."

"Actually, I was thinking the Russian Tea Room."

Moira blinked at that, a tentative smile tugging at her lip. "You could arrange that?" she asked. Charles snorted, even as he rolled his eyes.

"Please. This is New York, and I'm an Xavier." He wouldn't use his name for just anyone, but for Moira, certainly. Besides, he was hoping, provided they had a fairly lengthy engagement, that he might be able to impress Erik into attending as his plus one.

If he had to be related to his family, he might as well get some benefit out of it.

~*~

"I thought he was gay," Erik said into his phone, earning the attention of half the people sharing his bus. He scowled in their direction. This was the last time he tried to shave ten minutes off his trip by avoiding the subway.

It was amazing how quickly people found something else to occupy their attention--amazing too to see how subtly people could migrate away from him without actually looking like they were trying.

"He's flexible," Raven was saying, "not that it matters, because we're just hanging out."

That wasn't what it looked like yesterday, when they'd flirted all throughout dinner, and then Azazel had stayed and done the washing up--without having been asked--Raven hanging out in the kitchen with him the entire time.

"Does he know that?" Erik asked, because he'd seen the way Azazel had looked at his sister. There was no mistaking his interest.

The little old lady--she had to have been at least seventy--across the way was apparently braver than most. She glared at Erik even as she brought her finger to her mouth, effectively shushing him. Erik lowered his voice.

"Will you stop already? He's a good guy. I like him." Raven paused, and Erik was about to launch into his _you don't know anything about him speech_ \--never mind that it rather made him a hypocrite--when she said, "He reminds me of you."

"What?!" he sputtered, loudly--too loudly for the old woman, who grabbed the bag on the seat next to her, leaned forward and used it to smack the side of Erik's leg. Erik stared at her, affronted, but she merely stared him down until Erik had little choice but to look away.

"He feels safe," Raven said, as if that was all the explanation he needed. It was nowhere near good enough, but Erik suspected he wasn't going to get anything else out of her. He made a mental note to stop by the club later and have a little chat with Azazel.

No one was allowed to hurt his sister. Not even him.

"Look, we'll talk about this later," Erik said, just under his breath, mindful of the old lady. "I'm at my stop."

Raven mumbled something non-committal, which undoubtedly meant he was going to have to be the one to bring it up.

The old lady nodded her approval as soon as Erik disconnected the call, so he tipped his head in her direction and then stood. He felt light today--save the underlying simmer of worry where Raven was concerned. He suspected he could mostly thank Charles for that. This morning had been good--really good. Erik was smiling to himself as he got off the bus.

He was still smiling as he made his way into Dr. Frost's office, and when she saw him she raised an eyebrow, like she'd already figured out the reason for his good mood and didn't particularly approve.

"Hello, Erik," she said once Erik had claimed his usual seat. "You're in a good mood today."

Erik shrugged. "It's been a good week."

Naturally she asked what had made it a good week, and there was really nothing Erik could say that didn't begin and end with Charles, so he shrugged and said something about getting into the routine of the semester.

It was clear she didn't believe him, because her eyebrows shot up again, and she said, "Last week we talked about Charles. Have you seen him this week?"

A little seed of guilt bloomed in his chest, but Erik pushed it aside--he wasn't doing anything wrong, he told himself--and said, "He'll be done his PhD this spring," because it seemed like the most relevant thing to say.

Dr. Frost gave him a considering look.

"Have you decided to pursue a relationship with him once he's done?"

Erik hesitated, because that was exactly what he planned on doing--provided Charles was still interested--but the way Dr. Frost said it made it seem like a phenomenally bad idea. He frowned.

"Can't I?" he asked.

Dr. Frost, who was watching him intently, smiled. "Of course you can. You could pursue a relationship with him now if you liked."

They'd discussed this the last time, so Erik knew she was only speaking in the hypothetical. She didn't believe he should pursue a relationship--not with Charles, not with anyone; at least, not until he'd worked out some of his issues. Erik had to admit, it was a valid point, but surely he could do that before this spring. It had the added benefit of giving him time to get to know Charles, something Dr. Frost seemed to think important.

"Raven's seeing someone," he said. He hadn't planned on changing the topic. It just sort of happened. Dr. Frost blinked at him. It was a measure of her professionalism how quickly she changed gears.

"That must be difficult for you," she said, and it wasn't until she said it that Erik realized it was true.

He'd been taking care of Raven for so long that the thought of someone else taking his place felt a lot like rejection. Too late Erik realized that he didn't really want to talk about Raven.

"I just worry about her," he said, which was probably about as honest as he was willing to be on the subject.

They talked about Raven for a while, but inevitably the conversation came back to Charles--everything in Erik's life seemed to come back to Charles these days. Erik was well aware that he was trapped inside Charles' orbit--he had been since they met.

"I want to be able to talk to him about his work," Erik said near the end of their session, and what he was essentially asking was whether putting in the effort of understanding Charles' field would somehow constitute crossing his line.

Naturally, Dr. Frost's answer was far from simple. She told him that the boundaries were his own and that he dictated what constituted crossing the line--which was nothing she hadn't already told him. When Erik left, he was no closer to having an answer than he was when he went in.

There were days when he really wasn't sure what he was getting out of these sessions, even though it was strangely reassuring to have someone--not Raven--to talk to.

He stepped out of Dr. Frost's office into later afternoon sun, a steady flow of traffic already building towards the rush hour. He turned east and headed towards the subway.

It wasn't long before the press of buildings obscured the sun the openness of Central Park had permitted. The buildings cast long shadows; entire corridors of cool shade that made it feel colder than it actually was. Erik drew his coat tighter and looped his scarf around his throat. It was almost a relief to get underground and out of the wind.

On impulse and with Dr. Frost's warning still ringing in his ears--she had vehemently opposed his decision to visit Azazel--Erik boarded a train headed towards the Hellfire Club. By the time he got there, he had mostly silenced her cautions against such action.

He hadn't been to Hellfire since the day of Raven's interview, when he'd stormed inside and tried to drag her away. This time he found the door locked. Erik paused to consider his best course of action.

It was entirely possible Azazel wasn't even here--for all Erik knew he was with Raven. Erik peered in the darkened window, but nothing moved inside the club. He moved around to the side alley and found a set of steps leading to an emergency exit. Erik tried the door, but found it locked. He was about to give up, head home and see if Raven wanted to go out for dinner tonight, when the dull roar of a motorcycle drew his attention.

Erik returned to the street, watching as an [AWO Simson 425 S](http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/AWO_425) pulled to a stop in front of the club. Erik didn't care much about bikes--never had--but he recognized the model. They were popular in East Germany, and even now collectors coveted them. Erik was surprised to see one in New York.

He recognized Azazel even before he removed his helmet. He didn't seem particularly surprised to find Erik there, though he did take his time stowing his helmet before crossing over to where Erik was standing.

"Are you sure you're a poet?" he asked. Erik frowned.

"And a teacher," he said, but Azazel only shook his head.

"You remind me of Vympel. They were KGB. When I was kid, you stay out of their way." He shrugged, and then gestured to the club. Erik nodded. Azazel led the way inside.

The place was just as Erik remembered it, as unseemly in the light of day as it was the last time. He did his best not to touch anything, and followed Azazel over to the bar.

"You want drink?" Azazel asked. Erik shook his head. "Okay then, you give speech."

Erik wasn't at all surprised that Azazel knew why he was here. He was probably surprised it had taken Erik so long to get around to this.

"She's had a rough life," Erik began, "and I do my best to look after her, and that means keeping her safe from people who might take advantage of her. I may only be a poet, but I'm perfectly capable of killing you if you hurt her."

Azazel smiled, even as he nodded. "I believe that," he said. He leaned his elbows on the bar then, so that he was encroaching on Erik's space. "My father died when I was young, and my mother, instead of remarrying, she took care of us on her own. She was strong. We were never in want, even when people were starving, she always made sure we had enough. Your sister, she reminds me of my mother. She is stronger than you give her credit for."

Erik felt something uncoil in his chest upon hearing that, some unnamed tension easing. He nodded.

"She is," he said, because she was easily the strongest person he knew. Azazel nodded, like the matter was settled, which, when Erik thought about it, it probably was.

~*~

Charles woke to the sound of his phone chirping.

He opened his eyes and blinked. From the light streaming in through the window, it was late. Charles wasn't used to sleeping late. Granted, he had taken Moira and Sean out for drinks last night--to celebrate their engagement--so it had been fairly late by the time he'd crawled into bed. He'd debated calling Erik and inviting him, but had changed his mind at the last minute, half afraid he'd scare Erik off--he also didn't trust himself to spend time around Erik while intoxicated.

Charles rolled over, reaching out to pat absently at his nightstand. He found his phone, and on it a text from Raven.

[   
](http://www.nekosmuse.com/librarytext.jpg)

Charles stared at it for several minutes before realizing that if he wanted to run into Erik, he was probably going to have to hurry. He wondered briefly if this was too soon--how long could he excuse his constant presence as coincidence before Erik caught on? He wondered if he should leave it a day or two, give Erik a chance to miss him.

But would Erik miss him? It was entirely possible he wouldn't even notice Charles' absence, in which case Charles would be well served by ensuring Erik was constantly reminded of his existence.

This was probably one of those circumstances where he ought to call Moira and ask her opinion. Unfortunately he already suspected he knew what she'd say. In the end he decided on going, because regardless of how bad an idea it was, Charles wanted to see Erik.

It was amazing what the incentive of seeing Erik could do for Charles' efficiency. He was up and dressed and out the door within a fraction of his usual time. It didn't occur to him until he was standing outside the library that there was a slight flaw in Raven's plan.

Butler was huge, and there was no way he could search the entire building--he could spend hours searching for Erik without ever finding him. The better plan would probably be to wait outside--which he realized could be a long wait, because he wasn't even sure if Erik was here yet, or if he was, how long he intended to spend inside.

[He took up position just outside the main entrance](http://www.nekosmuse.com/stalkercharles.gif), wishing then that he'd thought to stop and grab a coffee. He scanned the mingling crowd, searching the face of each person who came and went from Butler. Raven had sent the text over half an hour ago. Charles had no idea how long it took to get from their house to the school. Would Erik even be here yet?

He glanced in the direction of Brownie's, thinking of grabbing a coffee for his vigil, and just as he did he spotted Erik, heading towards the library. Charles panicked. Would it be better to catch him coming in or coming out? Out, he thought, ducking behind the pillar, watching as Erik slipped into the building, seeming intent on whatever task had sent him there--Raven had said he wanted to discuss science stuff, but what did that even mean?

Charles waited until he was sure Erik was out of sight, and then emerged from his hiding place. It occurred to him, as he went in search of coffee--he figured he had the time--that he had probably hit a new low. Surely after yesterday he didn't need to stoop to this, did he?

No, he decided, he didn't, so instead of buying a coffee to go and taking it back to the library, he grabbed a table--though it physically pained him to do so, and he spent the entire time twitching with the need to rush back to the library in hopes of catching Erik.

He forced himself to sit there for half an hour, taking his time finishing his coffee. It was early enough that he mostly had the cafe to himself, save for the steady flow of people looking for their morning to-go cups. When he had drained the last of his coffee, he stood, feeling remarkably proud of himself for his restraint. He tossed his empty cup in the trash and headed towards the door, but just as he reached out to pull it open, it swung in, catching the back of Charles' knuckles. Charles cursed, cradling his hand even as he offered a glare to the person who had injured him.

It was almost fitting that that person ended up being Erik.

"Mein Gott, Charles," Erik said as soon as he recognized him. He reached forward, hesitating with his hand mid-air as though he wanted to touch but wasn't sure if he was allowed.

Charles offered a reassuring smile. "It's fine, just a little stunned," he said, still cradling his hand, which throbbed something fierce but seemed more or less intact.

It was then that he noticed the [book clutched in Erik's other hand](http://www.nekosmuse.com/geneticsfordummies.jpg). Charles blinked. He hadn't realized Butler even carried something like that.

When Erik registered what Charles was looking at, a slight flush spread across his cheeks and he dropped his hand, moving it slightly behind his back so that the book was mostly out of sight. He cleared his throat.

"I figured I should brush up," he said, sounding oddly guilty.

Charles glanced up to meet his gaze, unable to stop a grin from spreading across his face.

"Well, when you're finished with that, if you want something more advanced, you're welcome to borrow some of mine," he said.

The thought of Erik reading something he'd written was enough to set Charles' stomach fluttering. He wondered if that was how Erik had felt, handing over his book of poems. Erik, who still looked decidedly flustered, grunted something that might have been agreement, and Charles decided then that if he wasn't smitten already, he would have fallen in an instant. There was just something about Erik, embarrassed over having been caught with a Genetics for Dummies book--and Charles would never, ever be able to contain the giddy delight that surged in his chest at the thought of Erik reading up on genetics just so that he could talk to Charles--that made Charles realize just how besotted he was.

Erik, who still looked more than a little mortified, glanced to the counter, and then again to Charles' hand.

"I should probably..." he said, gesturing absently. "Are you sure your hand's okay?"

"It's fine," Charles said, even though he was starting to worry it wasn't. He wanted so badly to drag this moment out--maybe ask Erik if he wanted to grab another coffee, never mind that Charles had just finished his, or that he had actual obligations this morning.

There was something about Erik's hesitance, though, that suggested offering might push his luck, so Charles stepped aside and gestured Erik towards the counter.

"I suppose I'll see you Monday," he said, though he hoped they would see each other sooner than that--and they would, if Charles had anything to say about it.

"Yeah, Monday," Erik said, and the way that he said _Monday_ suggested that he too hoped it would be sooner. Charles smiled at that, his smile lingering even as he headed through the doors, up the stairs and outside, hand still cradled to his chest.


	14. Chapter 14

"What happened to your hand?" Raven asked, the first words out of her mouth. Charles glanced down at his taped fingers, immobilized by a splint, and frowned.

This hadn't occurred to him. He'd been so excited when Raven had called--after two days of not seeing Erik--that he'd jumped on the next train and rushed to Union Square, not considering what Erik might think when he saw Charles' hand.

"Your brother hit it with a door," Charles said, shrugging apologetically, as though the accident was his fault entirely--they were probably equally to blame, not that Charles blamed Erik in the least. Accidents were called accidents for a reason; and besides, it was only a hairline fracture, coupled with a jammed joint. He'd be good as new in no time.

He only wished it wasn't his dominant hand.

"What?" Raven said, staring at Charles like he'd grown two heads.

"It was an accident. I sort of told him it was less serious than it was. Should he not see it?"

Raven considered for a minute, and then shook her head, apparently deciding it was fine. She glanced briefly to her watch, and then ushered Charles off the street and into Union Square.

 _He likes to hit the market on Saturdays_ , she'd said on the phone, and Charles had spent the better part of his subway ride smiling stupidly over the thought of Erik cooking.

The Greenmarket ran the perimeter of the north-west corner of the park, but according to Raven Erik liked to walk through the park on his way home, so she led him to the entrance off 14th street, telling him only to keep an eye out before she disappeared--it wouldn't do for Erik to spot them together.

It left Charles with very little to do save wait and watch, hoping to catch sight of Erik in a park overflowing with people. He suspected it was probably an impossible task, which meant he'd undoubtedly be forced to wait another two days before he saw Erik again.

Raven couldn't give him an estimate of how long Erik would be, save sometime before lunch--it was only 10:00. Charles meandered, scanning the crowd as he did, never once catching sight of Erik. Eventually he found himself drawn to a line of chess tables, a few players already engrossed in games.

He found himself watching one player in particular; a middle aged guy with a mess of dreadlocks only half hidden by the knit beanie on his head. He played like it was second nature, employing strategies and techniques that Charles barely recognized--it had been far too long since he'd last played.

It wasn't long before the guy won his match--handily. He glanced at Charles then, arching an eyebrow and then nodding towards the board. Charles did another quick sweep of the park, and when he didn't spot Erik, nodded his acceptance.

"There's a fifty riding on it," the man said, and in place of the Rastafarian accent he was expecting, Charles was startled to hear a North Devon one.

"All right," Charles said, letting his own accent come through, well aware that a man from North Devon would interpret it as posh.

The man, who Charles would later learn was called Ted, grinned.

It didn't take long for Charles to realize he was in over his head. He'd played a good deal during his younger years--had membership in numerous chess clubs--but it had been a while, and until now, he hadn't played a master. It occurred to him as he lost his second bishop that it was entirely possible he was being hustled. That hadn't happened to him before. Charles was as amused as he was frustrated.

They'd attracted a crowd now--apparently Charles was good enough to keep Ted on his toes, something the regulars had never seen. Doing so required his full attention, though, Charles forgetting why he was in the park--and it was a mark of how challenging the game was that he would forget Erik of all people. He still knew, three moves before it happened, that he was doomed to lose the game. There was only so long Ted could chase Charles' queen around the board before Charles lost her. After that, it was only a matter of time.

"Checkmate," Ted said, holding out his hand for Charles' money. Charles conceded his defeat with a nod of his head.

He retrieved his wallet--a little awkwardly given that he only had one hand--and had pulled out a fifty and handed it over, when someone in the crowd said, "Double or nothing." Charles glanced up, startled to find Erik, laden with bags, watching him intently.

Charles blinked. It was sometime before he could convince his brain to start working again, the sight of Erik, framed by mid-morning sunlight, cheeks pleasantly flushed from the cold and his walk, pretty much derailing Charles' higher brain functions.

"I very much doubt I'll do better the second time," he said when he was able, unable to tear his gaze away from Erik. How long had been standing there, watching Charles play?

Erik tilted his head, giving Charles a faint smile before he turned his attention to Ted.

"You play me. You win you get his fifty and mine. I win, he gets his fifty back," he said.

Charles was fairly certain his mouth had fallen open, eyes widening as he stared at Erik--and the fact that Erik was wearing [a knit hat](http://www.nekosmuse.com/erikinahat.jpg) wasn't helping at all, Charles' brain giving up entirely as all of his blood rushed south.

Ted, who seemed to be considering, eyed Erik speculatively. He must have found something he liked, because eventually he nodded, gesturing Erik forward.

It took Charles a full minute to realize he needed to move, during which Ted reset the board. Blushing, Charles stood so that Erik could take his seat. Unfortunately, doing so required him to move his hand, which had been partially hidden in his lap, Erik noticing the splint then, a frown tugging at his lip. He glanced up to meet Charles' eye.

There was a question there, but Charles merely shrugged, waving it off even as he gestured for Erik to play. Some things were more important than broken fingers.

Judging from Erik's expression, Charles wasn't going to get off that easily, but he seemed willing to let it go for now. He slid into Charles' vacated seat, set his bags down next to him, and then cracked his knuckles. The smile he offered Ted was all teeth. For the first time since Erik's arrival, Ted looked a little uncertain.

His hesitation only lasted a minute, and then he returned the smile and moved his king's pawn up two spaces, officially opening the game.

When Erik countered with the Pirc Defense, Charles arched an eyebrow, more than a little thrilled--though not at all surprised--that Erik knew how to play chess.

Charles spent the next half an hour watching, with rapt attention, as Erik undermined Ted's centre from the flanks, systematically picking off Ted's pieces until it was readily apparent who was destined to win the game. Ted, whose lip was pulled between his teeth, was scowling at the board, beads of sweat dotting his upper lip. Erik, on the other hand, looked almost bored.

Ted shook his head, obviously giving up the game as lost, though he made a half-hearted attempt to keep his king out of checkmate. Erik rolled his eyes, obviously unimpressed by the effort. Within two moves Ted was out of options, Erik taking the game. He cocked his head to the side and held out a hand.

"His fifty," he said.

Ted, who was still staring at the board, glanced up and met Erik's eye. He was frowning, but after a minute an amused smile pulled at the corner of his lip. He chuckled, just under his breath, and pulled out Charles' crumpled fifty from a pocket, handing it to Erik.

"Worth it," he said, inclining his head. Erik returned the gesture and the crowd around them broke into spontaneous applause. Apparently beating Ted was something they had never seen before.

Erik mostly ignored them, though he did look slightly uncomfortable with the attention. He tucked the money into an inside coat pocket, gathered his bags and stood. Charles, who would have joined in the applause had his splint not prevented such a thing, offered Erik a wide grin. Erik returned it, nodding over his shoulder in a gesture that Charles took as an invitation.

A minute later he was falling into step at Erik's side, the two of them heading west on 14th Street.

"Are you going to tell me about the hand?" Erik asked. He was carefully not looking at Charles, though Charles could tell that doing so required effort.

"It's not as bad as it looks. Just a hairline fracture and a jammed joint; I must have caught it wrong," Charles said with a shrug.

Erik stopped walking then, maneuvering them to the edge of the sidewalk, where a stone balustrade and iron railing curved around the corner. He set his bags down at his feet and reached for Charles' hand. Charles felt himself go perfectly still as Erik's fingers curled around his wrist.

"Does it hurt?" Erik asked, staring intently at Charles' fingers, like they were capable of answering.

Charles swallowed, twice, before he felt capable of answering. "Not really," he said, and that was mostly the truth. Certainly they throbbed, and if he banged his hand against something pain spiked up his whole arm, but right now, hand cradled in Erik's grasp, pain was the last thing Charles felt.

Erik nodded, pushing Charles' hand back towards him, ensuring that Charles was prepared before he released his grip. Losing Erik's touch ached. It had nothing to do with the injury.

Erik, who only then seemed to realize what he'd just done, flushed slightly, avoiding Charles' gaze as he reached into his inside coat pocket to retrieve Charles' fifty. He handed it over.

"I didn't need his money," Charles said, staring at the bill between Erik's fingers.

"And he didn't need yours, but he was going to take it anyway," Erik said. When Charles still made no move to collect the money, he shook his head, leaned forward, and tucked it into the breast pocket of Charles' coat.

"You know," Charles said, "that's probably how he makes his living."

The look Erik shot him was incredulous.

"He's a hustler, Charles," he said.

Charles nodded, because that was true, but even if Ted was, it was still well deserved. It took incredible talent to play chess like that. He told Erik as much.

Erik shook his head. "God, you are so naive," he said. It sounded like he hadn't meant to say it out loud, like he was only thinking it--like it bothered him greatly that Charles would succumb to some dreadlocked chess master hustling for rent money in Union Square.

"Excuse me?" Charles still said.

Erik gave him a pointed look. "You assume everyone's intentions are honourable."

That wasn't precisely true. Charles knew that most peoples weren't, that altruism was a rare trait--it was just that he remained optimistic that the people he met might be the exceptions to the rule.

"Do you assume everyone has an alternative motive, then?" Charles asked, because it would probably explain a lot about Erik--more importantly, it would probably explain a lot about why they were still tiptoeing around what was obviously a mutual interest.

Erik looked almost apologetic as he said, "That's been my experience." Charles decided, then and there, that he was going to be the one to prove Erik wrong.

"So tell me, Erik, what was your ulterior motive back there?" Charles asked, leaning into Erik's space. He let his smile turn coy.

Erik's eyes grew wide, and he opened and closed his mouth several times, but nothing came out. Charles took pity on him.

"Or were you just hoping to impress me?"

And now Erik outright flushed--Charles would never get tired of it, Erik the first person Charles had ever brought to blush. Erik cleared his throat.

"I suppose that depends," he said, and when Charles raised an eyebrow, he added, "Were you impressed?"

And, oh, Charles thought, delighted, Erik was flirting--even if he looked incredibly uncomfortable doing so, like he was doing something illegal and half expected to be arrested for it. Charles made a mental note to ask Raven if Erik was still in the closet--that would also explain a lot.

"Very," Charles answered, swaying forward. Charles was close enough now that he could see the flecks of blue in Erik's eyes--he'd thought them entirely green. Erik's pupils were dilated, his mouth slightly parted. Charles didn't miss the way he glanced to Charles' lips. Charles licked them just for show and moved forward, fully intent on kissing Erik--because if he'd ever seen an invitation, this was it--but then Erik suddenly jerked, stepping back even as his shoulders tensed.

"Sorry, I have to," he gestured absently, looking so very conflicted in that moment that Charles forgot his disappointment in the face of his concern. "Raven's expecting me."

He bent to retrieve his bags then, purposely not looking Charles in the eye. Charles watched, more than a little dazed, as Erik beat a hasty retreat.

"I'll see you Monday," Charles called, feeling like they'd had this conversation before. Erik was easily the most frustrating person he knew--two steps forward and twelve back. There were days when he made Charles want to pull out his hair.

~*~

Raven glanced up from the magazine she was reading--some celebrity gossip rag, Erik couldn't help but notice--jumping instantly to her feet as Erik came through the door.

"What happened?" she asked, crossing to his side. She retrieved the bags from where they hung, limp, in Erik's hands. "Erik, what happened?" she said again when Erik didn't answer.

But what exactly could he say? _I almost kissed Charles. I wanted to kiss Charles. I still want to kiss Charles. I could have invited him back to this apartment and into my room and he would have come and it would have been so easy._

Erik felt bile inch its way up his throat.

"Sorry, I'm fine," he said. Raven's eyebrows hit her hairline. After a moment's consideration, Erik realized that this marked the first time he had deliberately lied to her.

And she knew it.

Erik hung his head and let Raven lead him into the living room, where she deposited him on the sofa before swinging into the kitchen to drop off Erik's shallots and fennel. It was some time before she returned, but when she did she was carrying a steaming mug, which turned out to be this morning's coffee, undoubtedly reheated in the microwave.

Erik made face, but sipped from it anyway.

"I ran into Charles," he said.

Raven waited patiently. There were times when she would coax--drag Erik out of his cocoon inch by inch, but there were other times when she clearly recognized that Erik needed to do things in his own time. This was one of those times, and Erik loved her for it.

"I almost kissed him."

She smiled at him then, soft and wistful, and yet filled with such pride that Erik was shaking his head long before she could say anything.

"I don't think you understand. I almost kissed him, and I shouldn't have, and now I don't know if I can keep seeing him without doing something I'm going to regret."

He couldn't imagine going months without seeing Charles. He thought he might suffocate under longing if he tried--and he really had no idea how Charles had gotten so thoroughly under his skin, in so short a period of time. Was Frost right? Was this only because Charles was the first person to attract his interest since Shaw? Surely it was more than that.

"Erik, would it really be so terrible to not wait? What is six months in the grand scheme of things?"

Erik waved the question off, because it was obvious she didn't know--couldn't know and he never, ever wanted her to.

She didn't say anything else, probably sensing Erik's determination. Instead she sat back on the couch, folded into the cushions at his side and sipped from her coffee. After a minute's hesitation, Erik did the same, letting his shoulder lean into hers even as she leaned into his.

They sat.

But Raven was not made to sit idle--not like Erik--so within twenty minutes she was fidgeting. Erik took pity on her and waved her off, giving her a look when she looked set to hesitate. She reached forward and grabbed her magazine, an apparent compromise that saw her still sitting on the couch, though not without distraction. Erik chuckled, took another sip from his coffee--it was no better the second sip--and then promptly spit it back into the mug. He leaned over to set it on the coffee table.

Before he settled again, he pulled out his blackberry. He wasn't entirely sure where the impulse came from, save that it was perhaps what he wanted to do. He pulled up an email, carefully not addressing it--not that he knew Charles' email--and jotted down [all the things he wanted to say](http://www.nekosmuse.com/wer.html). When he was done, he saved it as a draft. Maybe six months from now he could send it.

If he lasted that long.

The afternoon bled away on them like that, Raven reading her magazine, then fiddling with her phone, shifting positions every five minutes until her fidgeting started to drive Erik crazy. It was still early--too early for dinner--when Erik pushed himself off the couch and made his way into the kitchen.

Still, fennel soup wasn't going to make itself.

Raven came to join him just as the shallots were beginning to go translucent.

"You could try telling him," she said. Erik glanced away from the pot and furrowed his brow. "Charles. You could just tell him nothing can happen until he graduates, and then at least you'll be on the same page. You could stop each other."

Erik shook his head. "I'm not asking him to wait for me." He thought he'd made that clear--apparently not.

Raven snorted. "Have you even met this guy? He's going to wait for you, regardless. At least this way he'll know why he's waiting. He'll probably even think it admirable."

"Since when do you know him so well?" Erik asked, tossing in in his shredded fennel bulb. The scent of licorice caught his nose. Erik inhaled against it, and then set about chopping a couple of tomatoes.

Raven, who was strangely quiet, came over to stand at Erik's side, back pressed against the counter as she caught his eye. He knew what she was going to say--had heard her argument more times than he could count--so before she could get the word out, Erik changed the topic.

"I was thinking maybe I should get to know this Azazel of yours, if you're going to be hanging out with him. I thought maybe we could do something, the three of us," he said, which seemed to startle Raven enough that she dropped Charles as a topic of conversation. Erik pressed his advantage. "Next weekend, maybe."

For the longest minute Raven didn't say anything, but then, out of the corner of Erik's eye, he saw her nod. "Okay," she said.

Erik nodded and turned back to his soup.

~*~

Charles showed up exactly on time on Monday--he'd even resisted the urge to go back to Central Park and wait by the pond on Sunday. He suspected, after Saturday, that Erik probably needed some time alone. He had, however, texted Raven, but she'd only told him that it wasn't her decision; that Erik would either talk to him about it or he wouldn't--whatever that meant.

Erik glanced up sharply when Charles came through the door, relief flooding his features. He didn't even bother trying to mask his reaction, looking at Charles with what Charles hoped--though he might have been reaching--was open longing. Charles offered a hesitant smile, and got one in return. He took his seat--the only one left open, despite the fact that several students were standing--feeling like at least a little of his equilibrium had returned.

As soon as he was seated Erik launched into Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.

As he read, and later, as they discussed the poem, Erik kept Charles' eye, like he was trying to tell him something with someone else's words. Charles struggled to recall what he knew of the poem--they hadn't studied this at boarding school, so he'd spent the better part of Sunday reading it, and then sitting in the library, seeking out every critique he could find.

Certainly, Charles thought, if anyone classified as a Byronic hero, it was Erik.

When the class ended, Charles hesitated, uncertain if he should remain behind. He wanted to approach this cautiously--felt secure enough about Erik's interest after Saturday that the need for reassurance was gone; and that had never happened to him before. Still, he lingered, taking his time packing away his things--which he hadn't really needed, but had taken out simple for the purpose of packing them away at the end of the class.

It seemed to be the right decision, because even before the classroom emptied, Erik approached him.

"How's your hand?" he asked.

"Healing," Charles said, remembering then the way Erik had cradled it on Saturday--gently, so very, very gently. It was almost disappointing when Erik didn't reach for it again.

"I never apologized, but I am sorry."

Charles shook him head. "Don't be ridiculous, it wasn't your fault."

A couple of students, who obviously wanted a minute of Erik's time, hovered in the background.

"I should have been watching where I was going," Erik said. Charles laughed.

"I could say the same," he said, gesturing with a nod of his head to the two girls awaiting Erik's attention. Erik offered him an apologetic smile.

Charles left the classroom, acutely aware that Erik was watching him leave. It felt like something had shifted. There was hesitance on Erik's behalf--he was still holding himself back, even more so now than before, as though his near slip on Saturday had caused him to reset his rules--and Charles still didn't know what those rules were--but it was painfully obvious that he was interested, that it was only a matter of time before this thing between them came to a head.

The realization made him smile, Charles, for perhaps the first time in his life, feeling secure--enough so that when Raven texted him on Tuesday to let him know Erik was planning on hitting Hamilton Deli at lunch, Charles didn't immediately drop what he was doing and rush to get there ahead of Erik. In fact, he didn't rush there at all--although several times he glanced at the clock and then thought about putting on his coat. _You can wait a day_ , he told himself, feeling an odd sense of pride when the lunch hour came and went, Charles still safely ensconced in his office.

He could not, however, stop himself from arriving early to Erik's Wednesday class.

It was almost a shock to get there ahead of Erik. Charles hesitated briefly inside the empty classroom, but after a moment's consideration, he took his seat. The wait seemed endless, the room slowly filling, Charles growing increasingly antsy. Five minutes before the class was due to start, Erik's TA--Janos, Charles thought--rushed into the room, taking Erik's place at the podium. Charles frowned.

"I'll be running today's lecture," Janos said.

Charles' world ground to a halt. He extracted himself from his seat and slipped from the classroom as discretely as he could--a difficult feat considering he was sitting front and centre. He wasn't the only student to do so.

As soon as he was out in the hall, he pulled out his iPhone and called Raven. She answered after one ring.

"Calm down," she said, obviously knowing why he'd called. She sounded particularly hoarse. "We had Dim Sum last night, and it must have been off, because we're both puking our guts out today."

Charles' world lurched into motion, even as he made a face.

"Is he all right?" he asked, well aware of just how pathetic he sounded.

Raven lowered her voice. "He's miserable about not seeing you, but aside from that, fine. So am I, by the way." Charles grimaced, meaning to apologize, but Raven's next question rather distracted him from the thought. "Are you busy on Saturday?" she asked, seemingly out of the blue.

"No," Charles answered without having to think about it. It wouldn't have mattered if he was busy--he'd obviously clear his schedule for Erik.

"We're going to Coney Island," she said. Charles frowned at that. "There's this shark exhibit Erik wants to see, and he thinks it'll be a good way to bond with my new," she hesitated, "friend. You should come."

"Like come come, or meet you there come?" Because Coney Island was probably pushing it as far as coincidences went.

"No, come come. Actually, do you have a car?"

"I can get one."

"Awesome. I'll send you details," she said, and then she hung up, though not before Charles heard the sound of retching in the background.

Ten minutes later, his phone chirped, Charles pulling up a [advertisement for the New York Aquarium shark exhibit](http://www.nekosmuse.com/shark.jpg).

 _Sharks_ , Charles thought as he pulled it up. Somehow it seemed fitting.

~*~

Two days of the worst food poisoning of his life and Erik still felt stretched a little thin. He'd missed so much over the last two days-- _Charles_ , his mind shouted--though the three messages on his phone reminded him that he'd missed his appointment with Dr. Frost, too.

He called her office back, letting Angel know that he'd be in for his next scheduled--she'd cut him off when he'd tried to go into the gory details.

He spent the better part of Friday wandering aimlessly around the campus, hoping to bump into Charles--he ran into the man so often, it was almost as if fate was guiding their actions--but midway through his second search of Brownie's, he realized it probably wasn't going to happen. Raven had texted, to ask what he was doing, but rather than say _looking for Charles_ , he'd said something about spending the afternoon locked in his office. She hadn't responded, so Erik had no idea why she wanted to know.

It was almost comical, when he thought about it, how much he'd wanted some space just to avoid doing something he would regret, and here he was, almost an entire week worth of space, and it was already driving him insane.

He considered that maybe Raven was right. Maybe six months didn't make all that much of a difference.

The thought lasted just until he made it back to the English department, Erik passing by the bulletin board where one of [Shaw's gala invitations was posted](http://www.nekosmuse.com/galaboard.jpg). Erik paused, staring at it, feeling rage coil somewhere deep inside him as he thought about Shaw on campus only a week from now.

No, six months made all the difference in the world, Erik decided.

It was a miserably long day after that, one that Erik was glad to see the back of. When he arrived home, Raven was already getting ready for work--something about needing to do inventory before the night started.

"Don't forget tomorrow," she said. She'd warmed up nicely to the idea of Erik bonding with Azazel.

"Call me if you want a pick up," Erik said, more than willing to wait up half the night to walk over and get her. She shook her head, like she always did.

"Azazel will give me a lift." Another of Erik's jobs stripped from him, Erik thought, thinking about Azazel cooking. He shoved the thought aside; after all, he'd promised to try.

He didn't see Raven again until the next morning at breakfast--he'd heard her come in; had waited in bed, holding his breath until he was sure she was alone and had made it into her room safely. Only then had he let himself fall asleep.

He'd gotten up early, thinking perhaps he might have time to head to the park, see if Charles was playing chess again--when he'd asked on Monday, Charles had said that he occasionally played. It was startling to find Raven already awake. She was rooting through the kitchen, undoubtedly trying to put together her version of breakfast--which pretty much consisted of cold cereal, something even Raven couldn't screw up.

"You're up early," he said, reaching for the coffee maker.

"I told Azazel to get here for 9:00," she said.

Erik glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was already 7:30. That didn't leave them much time to fight over the bathroom and get ready. So much for going to look for Charles.

He supposed it made sense, though, the aquarium not exactly close, and undoubtedly they'd spend the entire day out that way. Raven probably had a point about the cold cereal. Erik put the coffee on and took down his own bowl.

"Has he been before?" he asked as they ate.

Raven shrugged. "Probably," she said, and then, when Erik arched an eyebrow in her direction, added, "He's been living in New York for like eighteen years now. He's probably been to the aquarium."

Erik knew that wasn't necessarily true. They'd been living in New York for four months now--not quite eighteen years, granted--and hadn't really hit any of the tourist sites. He'd been meaning to--meaning to take an entire day to tour places like Battery Park and the Empire State building--though only because he knew Raven enjoyed doing those sorts of things. He wondered if she'd do those things with Azazel now.

The thought wasn't making the prospect of today any easier, so Erik brushed it aside, concentrating instead on finishing his breakfast. Raven seemed content to let silence spill between them.

Against all odds--and probably because Erik had forgone shaving this morning--they were dressed and out the door shortly before nine. Their doorman let them out onto the street, where Raven pulled her coat a little tighter, fastening its buttons against the early morning chill.

Azazel pulled up right at nine, tucking his bike between two parked cars and then cutting its engine. He didn't seem the least bit perturbed that he was parking it illegally. It occurred to Erik then that he had no idea how they were even getting to the aquarium. He'd assumed the subway, but even after Azazel approached them on the sidewalk--smiling brightly at Raven as he did--Raven made no move to leave. Had she called a cab, he wondered?

He asked as much, but she shook her head. "Charles has a car," she said, as though it explained everything.

It was entirely possible it did, except perhaps, "Why does that matter?" Erik asked. Raven rolled her eyes.

"Because I invited him, and he's giving us a lift."

She said it so matter-of-fact, like it was a perfectly logical thing to do. Erik's stomach lurched with nervous excitement at seeing Charles, even as he tried to process the idea of Raven inviting Charles.

How had she even known how to get a hold of him?

It struck him then, the giddy excitement in his stomach turning to bitter nausea.

"Oh, Raven," he said, well aware that Azazel was staring between them even as Raven ducked her head, embarrassed.

"You missed him, so I thought..." she began, but he cut her off.

"This is all your doing, isn't it? I thought it was random, that we just kept bumping into each other because..." Because what? Because it was fate? Because they were destined for each other? The harsh reality of it was suffocating.

To learn that it was all Raven's doing--and he shouldn't be surprised, he really shouldn't; this was hardly the first time she'd tried to help him with his love life--was more than Erik could process.

"Erik, I'm sorry," Raven was saying. "I just thought you needed a push."

And she'd pushed all right. She'd pushed so hard and so far that Erik wanted, for the first time in his life, to push back. He stared at her, horror mixed with betrayal bleeding into his expression.

"How could you?" he asked, because she of all people knew what Shaw had done to him--had been there for Shaw--and now she was... What? Pushing Erik towards Charles, trying to turn Erik into the monster he'd always sworn he would never become.

The ache of it was too much to bear.

It was then that a leaf green Prius pulled up to the curb. The driver's side window rolled down, Charles poking his head outside. He was smiling, but his smile vanished when he caught sight of Erik.

Erik caught his eye, though only for a minute before he shook his head and looked away. He didn't say anything as he headed back into the building, leaving Charles sitting in his idling car; Raven and Azazel standing awkwardly on the sidewalk.


	15. Chapter 15

_Raven Interlude_

Raven stared at Erik's retreating back, even as a dozen explanations died on her tongue. Only once he was through the door and out of sight did she turned to meet Charles' eye.

Charles looked gutted.

"What happened?" he asked, sounding panicked. Raven shook her head.

"He just found out I've been playing matchmaker," she said.

Azazel, who'd been giving her space, came over to stand at her side. She could feel his heat, but he kept far enough away so as to not overwhelm her. She turned her head and offered him an apologetic smile. So much for their planned aquarium visit.

"What should I do?" Charles was asking, but Raven merely shook her head a second time.

"Leave this to me. It's my screw up; I'll fix it," she said.

Charles looked set to argue--he looked more than a little distraught at the moment, so Raven figured she could forgive him for not immediately following her instructions. She moved over until she was crouching next to his window. She caught his eye. Someone up the street honked, clearly upset that Charles was blocking traffic.

"It's fine. Just a minor setback. Please let me handle this," she said.

Except, it wasn't a minor setback. This Raven discovered after she'd convinced Charles not to rush inside the building and throw himself at Erik's feet, begging forgiveness. She apologized to Azazel--who'd shrugged and told her to call if she needed anything--and headed inside to find Erik locked in his room.

There was a rule in their house. No one locked doors. This was the first time Erik had violated it.

"I screwed up," she said through the thick wood of his bedroom door. Erik didn't answer, so she sat down on the wall opposite, sitting with her knees dragged up to her chest.

Erik had been mad at her before--it was impossible to live with someone as long as Raven had lived with Erik and not have the occasional spat--but there was something in Erik's silence--deathly still as it was--that made her feel like the world was ending.

And things had been going so well.

She shouldn't have invited Charles to come. She'd hoped Erik--who had been moping--would be so thrilled at seeing him that he wouldn't have questions how or why Raven had thought to invite him. She was hoping, too, that his presence would give Erik a shove in the right direction. She could tell it was only a matter of time before Erik caved. He was far too in love to do anything else.

Now she'd likely set him back weeks--she probably owed Charles more of an apology than she'd given.

She wasn't sure how long she sat--though by the time she gave in and stood, her body protested moving, muscles aching from hours of disuse--but this time when she knocked Erik answered.

"I need you to leave me alone, Raven," he said through the door--right through the door, like he was standing on the other side.

"For how long?" she asked. Erik hesitated.

"At least the rest of today," he said. He didn't say anything else, but Raven could hear him breathing, a raspy sound that told her Erik was trying to calm himself. She stepped forward and placed a hand on the door.

"And Charles?" she asked, because Charles was undoubtedly tormenting himself even as they spoke.

For the longest minute, Erik didn't say anything. When he did, he sounded more broken than Raven could ever remember hearing.

"I'll deal with him," he said, like Charles was a chore. Raven knew that wasn't how Erik felt; knew, too, that his efforts to make her think that he did meant that this was going to go so much worse than she'd initially feared.

She probably shouldn't have given him the day, but what other choice did she have?

~*~

After Raven went inside, Charles had wanted to sit parked outside Erik's building, but Raven's boyfriend--Azazel, the man had introduced himself--had shaken his head and said something about it not being a good idea to wait. He'd climbed onto his bike then, disappeared beneath his helmet, and took off. Instead Charles drove circles around the block.

Every time he passed Erik's building, he thought about stopping and going inside. He was right here, and there was a possibility that Erik would listen to him. He thought about calling Erik--Raven had left his number in his phone that one time outside Hellfire, oh so long ago now, and Charles had yet to find an excuse to use it. This seemed like a particularly valid one.

Then he thought about the look on Raven's face--something very close to panic--when she'd told him to go; that she would take care of this.

Oh, God, Charles thought. What if she couldn't? What if Erik ended up hating him, never wanting to see him again, all because he'd let Raven talk him into playing this game.

And all right, to be fair, it was nowhere near Raven's fault--because Charles was always doing things like this, and even now, when he was starting to think that maybe--maybe--it wouldn't be necessary with Erik, Charles was still doing it. He was such an utter idiot at times it was ridiculous.

He decide on texting Raven, because that was probably the only thing he could do. He pulled over to the side of the road, blocking in a parked car, but it didn't count as double-parking if he didn't leave the car, and it was either that or text and drive.

[ ](http://nekosmuse.com/oktext.jpg)

He contemplated her reply for several minutes before deciding that she was right; that his presence was only going to make things worse. His hand was shaking, nausea pooling in the pit of his stomach as he started the car and pulled back out into Saturday morning traffic.

It was a wonder he made it back to his apartment without destroying Moira's car.

Raven didn't text him again on Saturday.

Charles spent the whole of the day pacing the tiny space of his apartment, unable to keep still. He'd pulled out Erik's poems and was reading them when his phone rang, but in place of Raven--and maybe Erik, he thought hopefully--it was only Moira, letting him know he could drop off her car tomorrow.

Charles thanked her, and very purposely didn't mention anything about what had happened--what had happened?--in front of Erik's building. Instead he told her to have a good night with Sean's parents and that he'd make sure the car was parked safely outside her building before she got up.

He sat for a while after that, staring at the back wall of his kitchen, ugly laminate cupboards screwed against them like they were an afterthought. God, Charles thought, maybe Scott was right. Maybe he hadn't grown up; maybe he'd been so neglected in his youth that his internal chronometer had hit seventeen and stopped ticking. It would probably explain his inability to maintain a long-term relationship, not to mention his apparent contentment at living in this shithole of an apartment.

Scott probably had that condo by now, with vaulted ceilings and oak cupboards, spiral staircase climbing up to the loft bedroom. He'd been so specific.

Charles had never wanted anything so grand, but something like Moira's, maybe, with her wide plank-board floors and the pot lights above her island counter. Charles didn't even own any furniture--nothing that counted, anyway.

There were stains on Charles' carpet that were here when he'd moved in.

Feeling suddenly like he was suffocating, Charles grabbed Moira's keys and headed back out to her car. He'd told her he was taking it to Coney Island, so to Coney Island it was going to go.

Despite logically knowing the hour, it was still a surprise to step outside his apartment and realize it was night. He'd somehow lost an entire day to his moping, without noticing. Charles frowned, stomach rumbling then as if to remind him that he hadn't eaten since breakfast. He ignored it, climbed behind the wheel of Moira's car, and set off towards the West Side Highway.

There was something about driving that had always appealed to him, even when he steadfastly refused to buy a car. There was freedom in it, the feel of the wheel beneath his hands, the smooth flow of tires on pavement, the soft vibration of the engine--not that Moira's Prius had much of an engine--the blaring of [Moira's stereo](http://www.nekosmuse.com/leftnleaving.mp3). Charles navigated the city streets, weaving through traffic as though he was born to do exactly that. He felt detached from himself in a way that he hadn't since he was a teenager, isolated and alone in a country he barely had the right to call his own.

Riverside turned into West 79th Street, which brought him to the onramp of the West Side Highway. Charles drove, yellow highway lines vanishing beneath him, the cars he passed streaks of colour in his peripheral vision.

He took the tunnel across to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, and then down and around, until, over an hour later, he was arriving at Coney Island, almost ten hours past when he was originally supposed to be there.

Only now he was very much alone.

The lights of the midway cast an eerie glow against the overcast night sky. Charles found parking in one of the more expensive lots--he didn't particularly want to walk--and then found himself wandering up and down the boardwalk, watching the milling people--the crowds never seemed to disperse, regardless of the hour--even as he contemplated getting something to eat.

He ended up getting a hot dog, because it was Coney Island, and Charles had always been fond of the expression, _When in Rome_. It didn't particularly sit well, though that was probably because his stomach was still a mess of nerves. He had no idea what was going to happen in Erik's class on Monday. Would all of this be forgotten and forgiven? Or would Erik cut him off, decide Charles wasn't to be trusted--and after their conversation on ulterior motives, no less--and then Charles would never see him again?

Surely it couldn't end like this, could it?

And now the hot dog was threatening to make its reappearance, so Charles stopped himself from thinking along those lines. Instead he concentrated on the crisp night air and the obnoxious strains of music coming from the park. God, Charles really didn't want to be here.

He couldn't even really remember the last time he'd come--certainly not when he was a child, his mother would have died before she'd ever considered such a thing. Charles could remember coming once during a rare summer home from boarding school. He'd come on his own; snuck out of his house and stolen one of Kurt's cars just to make the drive--he hadn't even had a license yet. He'd met a boy whose name Charles could no longer remember. They'd eaten funnel cake and drank orange soda and laughed for hours--Charles had never known the like, his life so bereft of company. That night they'd hidden behind a trailer and traded hand-jobs--Charles' first--illuminated by the wheel of wonder.

He'd never seen the boy again, but to this day the memory was a cherished one. Inside his shortbread tin, in the bottom of his drawer, Charles still kept the very first item to have made its way into his collection: the boy's Coney Island wristband, neatly cut where Charles had clipped it off with the scissors from the boy's Swiss army knife.

He'd given the boy his number, but if he called, Charles suspected his mother, appalled by someone with a Cuban accent asking for her son, had probably ensured it was only once.

Coming to Coney Island was obviously a very bad plan.

Charles headed back to Moira's car.

He took his time getting back, driving aimlessly for a while, always heading in the right direction, but without taking the most direct route. Back in Manhattan, he found himself stopping outside Erik's apartment. _I could just ring up and apologize_ , he thought, but Raven still hadn't contacted him and she'd said she would. He sat outside Erik's building until Erik's doorman shooed him away, Charles giving up then, heading towards Moira's flat.

He had to park a block away, so he texted Moira to let her know, and then caught a train home, where he promptly collapsed into bed, intending not to leave it until either Raven--or Erik--called or Monday morning surfaced.

Monday came first.

Except, once again Charles walked into the classroom to find Janos at its head. Janos' eyes grew wide when he saw Charles, and he waved Charles over, ignoring the other students who were clearly as surprised to find him there again.

"He left a message for you," Janos said, ducking his head as he handed over an envelope. Charles' hand trembled as he took it.

There was no point sitting for the class--probably wasn't a point in coming back to the class now--so Charles took the envelope out into the hall and tore it open--carefully, oh so very carefully so as to not rip the page. In place of the long, sprawling letter Charles was expecting--hoping for--there was only [a short, terse note](http://www.nekosmuse.com/eriksnote.jpg).

Charles hand shook slightly as he read and reread the note, not finding anything else in it than what it obviously said. He couldn't tell what Erik had meant by _discuss this later_. Was he going to break up with Charles--stupid, stupid, considering they weren't even dating--or did he want their relationship to continue its progression?

Charles agonized over that for days. There was relatively little else to do, Erik not on campus and Raven no longer texting. Charles wasn't entirely certain what to do with himself. Mostly he moped, waiting for Erik's _later_ or even Raven's promised call.

The week crept forward, and neither came.

~*~

Erik avoided Raven's gaze as he moved about the apartment. He'd been doing the same for days, despite knowing he was hurting her--but she had hurt him first, damn it. It didn't help that he was home--had feigned illness and taken the week off work--the two of them sharing the small space with more frequency than usual.

"Are you just not going to talk to me ever again?" Raven asked as he came into the kitchen. He'd only wanted a cup of coffee, maybe something for breakfast, before he headed out for the day.

He had nowhere he needed to be this morning, but this afternoon marked his first appointment with Dr. Frost in two weeks; one he suspected he ought to keep. Also, being locked inside this apartment was starting to drive him a little crazy.

"Seriously, Erik. You cannot be this immature," Raven said. She pushed away from the counter she was leaned against and stepped into his space, blocking his access to the cupboard.

"Raven," he warned, but she stood her ground. Erik shook his head, deflating somewhat as he stepped back. "Can you not just give me some time? Is that really too much to ask for?"

It probably was, he realized. He'd never asked her for time before; he'd always been there for her, through some of the worst moments in both of their lives. The worst of it was this wasn't even her fault.

It wasn't Charles' fault either.

It was Sebastian Shaw's fault, and here he was, fifteen years later, hurting Erik and the people Erik loved all over again.

"I'm not that upset with you," Erik conceded. Raven's expression grew hopeful. "It's just a little much to process and I need time."

He needed more than that. He needed Dr. Frost to fix him. He needed Sebastian Shaw to pay for the things he had done. He needed Charles to understand that he deserved better than someone like Erik. He needed Raven to understand that his life was not a game, to be pieced together and played with as she saw fit.

He needed so many things.

"I'll give you time, Erik--as much as you need--but you should call Charles. I would imagine he's pretty miserable right now."

Erik let his expression soften. "I already sent him a note. I told him the same thing I've told you; I just need some time."

That seemed to assuage Raven's worry, because she smiled, nodding like she could now see a light at the end of the tunnel. Erik wasn't so sure such a thing existed, but he let her cling to her hope, ate his breakfast, and then headed out for the day.

He spent the morning wandering aimlessly. He ducked into a few shops, bought some books and then drank bitter coffee bought from a vendor near Union Square. He tried finding the chess hustler who'd tried to take Charles' money, but apparently he only came out on the weekends, because he was nowhere to be found. He sat near the spot he'd beaten him in, the guy's portable table and chairs gone, Erik forced to share a bench with an old woman contentedly feeding pigeons. He jotted [something in his notebook](http://www.nekosmuse.com/surrender.html).

When he was done, it was still early enough that Erik decided to start walking towards Dr. Frost's. Most days he wouldn't have even considered such a thing--Dr. Frost's office well over two miles away--but today he wanted the time to clear his head. He stopped on the way at Ma Peche and bought noodles for lunch, eating them from their carton as he walked, his pace somewhere between leisurely and clipped. He still found himself standing beneath the green awning of Dr. Frost's building long before his scheduled appointment.

To his surprise, when he arrived upstairs, Dr. Frost was out in the hall, waiting for him.

"Your sister called," she said when she saw him, Erik shaking his head--Raven was at it again. "I've cleared my schedule." She gestured Erik into her office, leading him towards his usual chair.

Just to be contrary, Erik headed into the corner and threw himself down on Dr. Frost's white leather couch. It wasn't so bad, he realized when he got there, staring up at the ceiling. He could see now why someone might like the setup.

Dr. Frost, who was always so quick on the uptake, didn't even blink as she pivoted and then crossed the room to claim the art deco chair.

"Are you feeling better this week, Erik?" she asked.

Erik exhaled.

"I'm going to have sex with Charles," he said, because that seemed his most pressing problem. "I'm going to have sex with Charles and it's all Shaw's fault and I _hate_ him for what he did to me."

For the longest minute Dr. Frost didn't say anything, she merely watched Erik with that introspective look that he knew meant she was calculating how best to respond to something he'd said. When she did speak, it was so quiet Erik had to strain to hear, though no less purposeful than anything else she'd ever said.

"You are not Sebastian Shaw. He did not make you. Your actions are, and will always be, your own. But you are still allowed to hate him."

It didn't make Erik feel much better.

~*~

Charles sat on Moira's sofa--perched on the edge of the seat cushion this time, not particularly wanting to deal with its appetite--and watched as Moira fretted over shoes.

Ten minutes ago, he'd sat on the edge of her bed watching her fret over dresses.

"Honestly, Moira, the black ones," he said, when she seemed torn between the little black pumps and a pair of blue monstrosity platforms that should have been tossed in 2004. He really didn't see what the big deal was, but then, he supposed he'd been more than a little unenthusiastic lately.

"Fine, the black ones," Moira conceded, slipping them on. She did a final twirl, Charles giving her a half-hearted nod. Moira frowned. "Why are you even going, Charles?"

Charles glanced up at that, well aware of how he looked--sitting dejected and broken, bags under his eyes from not sleeping, hand still splinted, complexion pale and sickly from not eating, and yet dressed to the nines in an Armani tux. He shrugged.

"He might be there," he said, because even though Erik had shown little interest in going, there was still a chance he might turn up at the Poet Laureate Gala, and at this point all Charles wanted was to _see_ him.

Moira frowned at him. "Are you sure you're not taking this a little too hard? I mean..." was as far as she got before Charles was interrupting her.

"Don't you dare. Don't you dare compare this to anything else. I actually have genuine feelings for this man--like am possibly in love with this man--and you and I both know I have _never_ felt that before. This isn't just one of my crushes gone wrong. It isn't." And it wasn't. He'd known Erik for well over a month now, which was a good deal longer than any of his other interests.

He'd been like this all week--snarky and tense and constantly on edge. This wasn't the first time he'd barked at Moira, and it probably wouldn't be the last.

"If you'd let me finish, I was going to remind you that he only asked for time. He didn't break up with you. He didn't tell you he never wanted to see you again. Hell, it's pretty obvious he's just as crazy about you as you are about him. I think you just need to be patient."

Except patience was the one thing Charles had never had--never would, either. Still, he hung his head.

"I know, I'm sorry," he said, which was precisely when Sean called to say that he was downstairs with a cab.

"Come on," Moira said, offering a hand. "Hopefully he'll be there."

Charles hoped so too--he really, really did.

Except, when they arrived at Lerner Hall, and entered the auditorium, Erik was nowhere to be found.

"It's still early," Moira whispered in his ear, giving his arm a brief squeeze before she allowed Sean to lead her through the crowd, undoubtedly wanting to mingle with his fellow musicians.

Charles took heart to that, mustered his best smile, and began a circuit of the room, still searching for Erik, occasionally allowing himself to get dragged into the odd conversation. He'd been inside twenty minutes when he swiped a glass of champagne off a circulating tray, and then moved back towards the door, hoping to spot Erik if--when--he arrived.

It was only marginally surprising when he ran into Scott.

"He's not coming, you know," Scott said, managing to sound apologetic. Charles straightened his shoulders.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about," he said, although he knew he wasn't fooling anyone.

Scott gave him a look--one that said, _please, Charles, I know you_ , but before he could say anything--before Charles could further protest--a broad-shouldered man joined them, handing a newly retrieved champagne flute to Scott.

Charles frowned.

"I'm sorry, don't we know each other?" he said, because there was something decidedly familiar about the guy.

The guy looked Charles up and down, and then arched an eyebrow.

"I fucked you a couple of years ago," he said, and right; Charles probably should have remembered that.

"The Canadian guy who ruined my rug," Charles tried to say, but at the same time Scott, who until then had been doing a good impression of a gaping fish, turned to the man and said, "Logan!"

Logan--yes that was his name--glanced from Scott and Charles, and then back to Scott again. "Oh, this is your old Charles?" he said, smiling a little sheepishly. He didn't particularly look too apologetic.

Charles wasn't sure whether to be amused or offended by being referred to as Scott's old anything. It was also fairly obvious that Charles didn't want to get caught in the middle of whatever argument they were about to have--and really, it did go a little beyond weird--so he smiled somewhat apologetically--not that they were paying attention to him--and stepped back.

Or rather, he meant to step back, but doing so caused him to collide with the person standing directly behind him, Charles turning, mortified, apology already passing across his lips before he registered just who it was he was talking to.

"It's quite all right," the man--and even if Charles hadn't looked him up, there was really no mistaking Sebastian Shaw for anyone else--said. Shaw was quite distinctive. He rather made Charles' skin crawl--and that was not a reaction Charles had to too many people.

"Right, still, apologies," Charles managed, wanting only to be away from those piercing eyes that seemed set to devour Charles on the spot--and not in a good way.

"But how rude of me; we haven't even been introduced. Sebastian Shaw," he said, taking Charles' injured hand, and to Charles' surprise--and horror--Shaw brought it to his lips and kissed the back of Charles' bandaged knuckles, like Charles was some lady in waiting, Shaw a prospective husband.

"Charles Xavier," Charles managed, wanting to snatch back his hand, but he would have had to fight Shaw to do so--which he suspected might hurt--so it seemed simply easier to let them man continue cradling it.

~*~

She was wrong. They were both wrong. This was Shaw's doing, and Erik would never be free of him if he didn't do something about it. How could he ever hope to move on--to move forward--if he didn't vanquish his enemies?

Dr. Frost had told him confronting Shaw wouldn't solve anything. Raven had told him going after Shaw would only prove Shaw still held power over him. But they were wrong.

So very, very wrong.

And for the first time in a very long time, Erik knew exactly where to find Shaw.

He shrugged off the man inside the main entrance who asked for Erik's coat. "I'm not staying," he said, as if that wasn't obvious given Erik's lack of attire. He shrugged off the woman at the door to the auditorium who asked for his invitation. "You know who I am," he said, and she did, because in the first week he'd been at the university she'd offered to fetch him coffee more times than he could count. He'd eventually told her he was gay just to get her off his back.

The auditorium was decked out for the occasion--not that Erik had seen it before its transformation, but it looked like all the stops were pulled; there were actually live plants and flowers strewn about like the room was supposed to be some sort of English garden. Oh, Shaw would undoubtedly love it. He loved feeling like the biggest, most powerful man in the room. He loved having people make a fuss over him.

But it wasn't Shaw who drew his gaze--however much Erik was searching for him--but rather Charles--and what was Charles doing here, he wondered. It took him several minutes to recognize who Charles was speaking with. Several more to register that Shaw--and God, it was him--was _holding Charles' hand_ , like he had a God-damned right to touch anything of Erik's.

Erik saw red. The whole of the room narrowed into a tunnel as he took in Shaw, talking to Charles with that oh-too-familiar look in his eye. Erik was moving before he could stop himself.

He stormed across the room, people physically leaping out of his way when they saw him coming. At one point, Charles glanced over, smile lighting up his face until he registered the look of death on Erik's features. Then he flinched, drawing back as though frightened--good, Erik thought, he should be-- _I'm a monster_.

Sensing Charles' distraction--and oh, how that must have burned Shaw--Shaw turned, catching sight of Erik, eyes growing wide, but before he could say anything--before anyone could say anything--Erik had hauled back his fist and [punched Shaw right in his ridiculous face](http://www.nekosmuse.com/baconpunch.gif).

"Erik!" Charles cried, even as Shaw stumbled back, but Erik wasn't done.

He lunged for Shaw again, but before he could get there a pair of thick arms wrapped around him, pinning his arms to his side and pulling him back.

"Whoa, there, bub. Not gonna happen," his captor said. Erik snarled, even as he struggled.

"Don't hurt him, Logan, please don't hurt him," Charles was saying, even as Shaw rubbed at his jaw, stepping forward until he was close enough that, had Erik not been restrained, he could have reached out and snapped the man's neck.

"Well, if it isn't little Erik Lehnsherr," Shaw said, eyeing Erik speculatively. "Not so little anymore, are you?"

"Sorry to disappoint," Erik said, but before he could say anything else Charles was there, stepping between them, his blue eyes blown wide with panic. Erik's anger faded in an instant--he wanted only then to bundle Charles away from here, to make sure that Shaw hadn't hurt him.

"I don't know what's going on, but you need to stop," Charles said.

Erik opened his mouth to agree--he would have agreed to anything Charles asked--when a familiar head of white hair approached the group.

He'd only met Ororo Munroe, the department head, once, but he'd heard enough to know that she had a reputation for brooking no nonsense.

"Outside," she said, gesturing to Erik. She glanced at the man still holding him--Logan, Charles had called him--as though expecting him to drag Erik from the room.

"Don't think I'm going to let this go so easily," Shaw said, stepping forward. Erik was once again overcome with the urge to kill him--if Logan hadn't still been holding him he might have done exactly that.

"You have my apologies, Professor Shaw," Munroe said, "and the University will do everything in its power to ensure this man is appropriately disciplined. I can assure you, we wouldn't do anything to jeopardize our association with a man of your standing."

Erik growled as she said it, which seemed to be Logan's cue to drag him from the room--too late he realized Summers was also there, hovering at Logan's side like he expected to have to join in and make Erik's humiliation complete. He caught Charles' gaze when they had him halfway to the door, Charles watching with too-wide eyes. He mouthed something, but Erik had never been good at reading lips, so he had no idea what it was.

At Charles' side, Shaw was smiling.

Logan--the brute--and Summers led him out into the hall, and then into a storage room filled with folded chairs and extra tables. Summers retrieved a couple of the chairs, spreading them around as though they were about to have an engaging conversation. Erik was tempted to flee the second Logan released him, pushing him towards a chair in the process--Charles was still alone with that man!--but before he was able to, Munroe stormed into the room.

"And just what was that?" she asked.

Erik firmly kept his mouth shut, even as he met her gaze and held it. He was expecting her to break first--most people did--but instead she merely arched an eyebrow, as though Erik was a wayward child she expected to have to put over her knee.

Erik glanced down at the floor.

Which was precisely when the door to the storage room opened, and Charles Xavier walked in.

"Sorry, but I think I can probably help with this situation," he said. He glanced briefly to Erik, confusion and something Erik thought might be incredulity reflected in his eyes, and then turned his attention back to Munroe. Munroe caught his gaze, nodded, and then motioned him inside. She moved to sit in one of the chairs, like a queen taking audience on her throne.

"Go on," she said.

"I've spoken to Professor Shaw, and he's agreed not to press any formal charges, or file any formal complaint, on the condition that Professor Lehnsherr apologizes." Here he glanced at Erik again, expression growing apologetic.

Erik felt bile rise in his throat, even as he struggled against the rage threatening to overwhelm him. What had Charles promised, he wondered, to get such an offer. The thought sickened him--almost as much as the thought of apologizing to Shaw.

"Thank you, Professor Xavier. If that's all," Munroe said, nodding Charles out of the room. Charles cast one last glance at Erik, nodded, and then ducked out of the room.

In his rage, it took Erik several minutes to process what Munroe had said. When he did, he turned and caught her eye.

"Professor Xavier?" he asked, Shaw forgotten.


	16. Chapter 16

Professor Munroe turned her gaze on Erik, expression icy with disdain.

"Yes, Professor Xavier," she said, "and you're damned lucky he's decided to take an interest in these affairs, because otherwise I'd have you bundled back to Germany before you could say Auf Wiedersehen."

She shook her head and stood from her chair, brushing the creases from her pantsuit. She turned to Summers.

"Make sure he apologizes," she said, casting a final, disapproving glance in Erik's direction. Erik was still too stunned to do anything other than blink comically at her.

Charles was a professor?

He was only dimly aware of Munroe leaving the room, Summers stepping forward, Logan at his heel. Erik scowled at the man, but Logan only quirked a smile and held up his hands, so Erik turned his attention to Summers.

"Charles is a professor?" he asked, because clearing that up seemed his most pressing concern.

"Of course he's a professor," Summers said, like Erik was being particularly dense--and apparently that was exactly what he'd been--"and she's right; you're damned lucky this school needs Xavier money more than it does Poet Laureate prestige, otherwise she would have crucified you.

Erik frowned at that. Charles had money? He was having a hard time picturing it; Charles always looked like he'd stepped right off the pages of the local Goodwill catalogue--which was actually a rather good look on him.

It occurred to Erik then that he was allowed to think that. For the first time in days--weeks even--Erik found himself smiling, a weight he'd been carrying lifting as he processed what this meant. Charles was a professor. He wasn't off limits. And Erik wasn't a monster. Shaw hadn't won.

He laughed, sounding more than a little manic. Summers stepped back, even as Logan frowned at him, looking like he expected to have to restrain Erik all over again. Erik grinned at him.

"I believe I have an apology to make," he said, gesturing to the door. Summers glanced at Logan, Logan at Summers, but eventually they nodded, Summers leading the way while Logan took up the rear, neither of them trusting Erik enough to let him out of their sight.

Erik didn't care.

Charles was a professor.

He wanted to seek out Charles first--hoped to run into Charles on the way--but his guards were coiled tight with tension, ready to spring into action should Erik attempt anything other than making his apology. They led him back into the auditorium. Erik scanned the room, hoping to catch sight of Charles, but he wasn't there. He did, however, spot Shaw, looking far smaller than Erik remembered him being. He was sitting near the back of the room, by the open bar, with an ice-filled cloth napkin pressed against the side of his face. Erik smiled, even as the sight reminded him that his knuckles still rather stung.

"I think I can manage this on my own," Erik said, and when Summers hesitated, he added, "I'm fairly certain Charles' arrangement did not involve witnesses." He took particular care to emphasize Charles' name, feeling possessive now that Charles was his--and he was, oh how he was. Erik was still smiling. Undoubtedly he looked a little psychotic.

Summers hesitated, but apparently he decided it wasn't worth the fight, because he nodded and dragged Logan off to the side, leaving Erik to cross the room on his own. Shaw, who'd been talking with a handful of people, glanced up at Erik's approach. He cocked his head to the side, and then waved off his concerned admirers. By the time Erik reached his side, they were alone.

"Erik Lehnsherr," Shaw said, smiling, though he'd hesitated briefly upon seeing the grin plastered across Erik's face. Shaw's smile made the bruise spreading across his cheek look swollen and ugly. Erik's smile widened.

"You're looking old, Sebastian," he said. Shaw titled his head, obviously not expecting the jab.

"I could say the same for you," he said. He let his smile turn just a little menacing. "I can't say the same for your... _friend_ , however."

Erik let his smile grow teeth--the same smile he'd given that chess hustler last week. Shaw looked momentarily taken aback. God, had Erik ever really idolized this man? He looked so small--so pathetic--well past the prime of his life, hair shot through with grey, wrinkles pulling at the corners of his eyes. He had a liver spot on his forehead.

"He's not really your type. For one thing, he's a professor, not a student; for another, I very much doubt he's a virgin."

Shaw looked slightly startled upon hearing that, his smile slipping momentarily as he tried to find his equilibrium.

"That's too bad," he said after a moment. "But I suppose there are plenty of fish in the sea."

Erik laughed at that--outright laughed, and anyone who'd seen him earlier, who'd witnessed him punching this man in the face, undoubtedly thought him crazy, but Erik didn't care.

"Getting a little harder to catch those fish these days, I would imagine," he said. The last fifteen years hadn't been terribly kind to Shaw. Gone was the vibrant, powerful man he'd been. Shaw was on the short track to becoming a dirty old man--not that he hadn't always been, but at least now his appearance would match his perversion.

Shaw, whose smile had completely vanished, squared his shoulders. He glared at Erik.

"I believe you owe me an apology," he said, "so I'd suggest you get on with it."

Erik was half expecting Shaw to request that he kneel to give it. Erik let his smile grow smug.

"Oh, I don't think we'll be doing that. In fact, we're going to try something new." The look Shaw shot him was incredulous, but Erik pressed on. "You're going to finish your little party, and then you're going to get on a plane and go back to London, or Berlin, or Paris, or wherever the hell it is you're living these days, and you are going to stay the hell away from me, and Charles, and everyone else I care about. How does that sound?"

"Are you threatening me?" Shaw asked, stepping forward now, trying to use his size to intimidate, except Erik had grown in the years since their last meeting; was taller than Shaw now.

"Actually," Erik said, "I believe I'm blackmailing you. Because if you don't agree to my terms, then I'm going to go public, and I may not technically have been underage, but I suspect it wouldn't take too much to find someone who was. How old was that boy you brought to that conference in Zurich? Fifteen? Fourteen? I don't think he was legal, and even if he wasn't willing to come forward, I suspect just the rumour would hurt your career."

Shaw had gone completely white, mouth pressed into a thin line as he shook. Erik watched, rather delighted, as Shaw breathed heavily through his nose. All this time--all these years--and here was the man Erik had agonized over; rendered pathetic and insignificant, stripped of his power, little more than a forgotten relic.

"I would be very careful about the sorts of accusations you throw around," he began, but Erik stopped him with another barked laugh.

"No, I think it's you who needs to be careful. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have better things to do with my time," he said, and without waiting for a reply, turned and left.

Any other time, he might have paused to revel in the feeling of having just bested the man he'd thought had utterly broken him--how could something so pitiful break anyone?--but now all Erik could think was _Charles_. He left Shaw, undoubtedly fuming, and headed out of the auditorium, intending to search the whole of campus, building by building if he had to.

~*~

"Let me cut to the chase, Charles," Ororo was saying. She'd found Charles standing outside the door to the auditorium, where he'd been waiting for Erik, and had promptly dragged him down the hall and into the cloakroom.

 _Kinky_ , he'd told her, though only because they were once on friendly terms and he knew she wasn't as stormy as she led people to believe.

"The administration may not be aware of it, but I know you've cut ties with your family, or had ties cut--I don't care. The point is your influence isn't going to make a very large difference in your mother's next donation cheque, so we both know I have no reason to listen to your arguments in his favour."

"Except, rationally, I'm right," Charles said. "I've already spoken with Professor Shaw. He's willing to drop the matter, so other than a handful of witnesses--most already tipsy from their champagne--who's to say it ever happened? Wouldn't it be easier just to drop the matter entirely? Certainly it would save you some paperwork."

Ororo stared at him. It was a shame, Charles thought, that she'd chosen Scott's side over his in their breakup. He admired her, and might still count her a friend had she not decided he was an immature fool--not that she hadn't been right. Maybe that would change now.

"Can you at least tell me what that was about? Because I'd like to at least know why Lehnsherr felt the need to slug Professor Shaw in the middle of Professor Shaw's gala dinner."

Charles hesitated. He didn't know the real reason--obviously only Erik knew that--and while he knew that Erik knew Shaw--and had seemed more than a little standoffish about the man--Charles hoped--which was probably the most pathetic thing he'd done in his life, and that was saying something--that Erik had been at least partly motivated by jealousy.

Still, he couldn't exactly tell her that.

"I'm not sure," he decided on, which seemed to frustrate Ororo to no end.

She stared him down for several minutes before shaking her head, her shoulders losing their tension.

"They'll be serving dinner now and I for one am hungry. Provided Professor Shaw hasn't changed his mind, I am willing to overlook this incident, for now, but you tell Lehnsherr that if anything like this happens again, Columbia will retract their offer of a full professor position."

She moved towards the door then, looking exasperated by the entire situation, but Charles was too busy internally celebrating the prospect of Erik taking up permanent residence in New York to really notice.

She caught his attention again, however, when she reached the door, turning to say, "And for God's sake, Charles; try to keep your personal life out of the office."

Apparently she'd made the same assumption Charles had. Charles rather hoped that was a sign he was at least pointed in the right direction. He offered her a sharp nod.

"Of course, my apologies," he said. Ororo nodded and then vanished through the door.

Once she was gone, Charles took a minute to run his hands through his hair, check his breath--it required a mint, but fortunately he'd thought to pack those--and straighten his tux jacket. When he was done, he headed into the hall.

Ororo had told him she'd arranged an escort to ensure Erik met his apology as scheduled, so the first place he checked was the auditorium, but the guests were already taking their assigned seats, a sea of white-clothed tables dotting the open space. Shaw was up at the front, sitting at a long, raised table with the University's elite. Charles was too far away to tell for sure, but he didn't look particularly happy. Erik wouldn't have stayed for this, Charles knew, so he headed back into the hall.

But where would Erik go? Home perhaps? But why come all this way and not speak to Charles, especially after everything that had happened between them?

He thought perhaps this might be the time to use the number Raven had programmed into his contacts list. He pulled his iPhone from his pocket, but waited until he was out of the building, Broadway a sea of late rush-hour traffic before him, to dial the number and hit the call button.

It was startling to hear the connection ring at the same time as a nearby cellphone. Charles glanced up and found himself staring at the retreating back of Erik Lehnsherr. They must have literally just missed one another.

Charles watched, faintly amused, as Erik pulled his phone out of his pocket. He glanced at it and immediately stopped walking, standing frozen in the middle of the sidewalk. He hesitated, and then brought the phone to his ear.

Through the connection, Charles heard, "Charles?"

"You know," Charles said, loud enough so that Erik could hear him both through the phone and across the twenty odd feet that separated them, "you're very good at giving a guy mixed signals."

As soon as Erik heard Charles' voice, he pivoted on his heel, the hand holding his cell dropping to his side. Charles disconnected the call and dropped his phone back into his pocket. Erik did the same.

"I mean, really, what exactly am I supposed..." was as far as Charles got before Erik had closed the distance between them.

Charles was about to ask him what he was doing--if he was okay, because the look on Erik's face was near crazed--when Erik reached for him, hands coming up to tangle in Charles hair--oh God, Erik's hands were in his hair--even as he closed the distance between them, kissing Charles with such ferocity that Charles stumbled back a step.

As soon as he got his feet under him, he surged forward, pressing into the kiss--oh, God, Erik was kissing him--bringing his hands to Erik's shoulders to hold him in place. Erik whimpered into his mouth.

Erik kissed like the world was ending. Like Charles was simultaneously the first and last person he would ever kiss. His lips trembled, even as they parted, Erik's tongue sliding against Charles' bottom lip, a polite request for entry. Charles was more than happy to grant it, opening his mouth with an audible groan, whimpering slightly when Erik's tongue slid against his own--and oh, God, Erik's tongue was in his mouth.

The added contact seemed to break something in Erik, because he pressed even closer, until Charles could feel him from his knees all the way to the top of his head, where Erik's fingers were twisting in his hair, shaking ever so slightly. Erik was breathing heavily, chest heaving against Charles', Charles aware of the rapid-fire patter of Erik's heart that echoed exactly his own.

One of the hands in Charles' hair moved then, fingers tracing a steady line down Charles' spine until Erik's arm was wrapped around Charles' waist, drawing him closer, holding him firm against Erik until Charles could feel the press of Erik's erection digging into his stomach.

Charles felt his knees go a little weak. He rather thought he was entitled.

There was a million questions running through his head--a million things he wanted to say--but when Erik finally broke the kiss--too soon, too soon, Charles's mind shouted--and pressed his forehead against Charles' to pant against Charles' lips, Charles found himself incapable of speech.

"Are you okay?" Erik asked, holding Charles so tightly that Charles could do nothing save tuck his head into Erik's neck. "Did he hurt you? Did he touch you? Did he make you promise him anything?"

It took Charles several long minutes--several long, nice minutes, in which he breathed the scent of Erik's skin, his shampoo--before Charles was able to deduce what Erik was talking about. When he did, he tried to pull back, but his struggles only caused Erik to tighten his grip, holding Charles against him like he thought Charles might vanish if he let go.

Charles didn't feel much like complaining, so he relaxed into Erik's embrace.

"He didn't touch me, I'm fine," Charles mumbled into Erik's neck.

He felt Erik's Adam's apple brush against his cheek when Erik swallowed, and then Erik was pulling back and kissing Charles again, like the first time was only practice and this time he wanted to ensure he did it right. Charles' knees actually gave way this time--that had never happened to him before--but Erik merely hoisted him up, holding him suspended, pulled tight against Erik's body. It was easily the best moment of Charles' life.

Somewhere in the distance, a horn honked and the city came back to life around them, Charles only then remembering that they were standing in the middle of the street, in front of a very public building, and that it was probably not an appropriate place to begin tearing at Erik's clothes. Erik seemed to have the same idea, because he broke the kiss and pulled back, panting.

"Is there somewhere we can go?" he asked into the space between them, and anything Charles might have said--anything Charles might have asked--vanished in an instant, replaced only by want and desire and the sheer giddy delight that came with the prospect of having Erik in his bed.

"I don't live far," he managed.

Erik grinned at him, the edges of his smile so grateful it took Charles' breath away. He slid a hand into Charles' uninjured one. Charles returned the smile, and then tugged Erik in the direction of his apartment.

They practically ran.

It still took ten minutes to get there, the tension between them growing heavier with each passing minute. Erik had refused to relinquish Charles' hand--clung to it even now--and whenever Charles glanced in his direction, Erik was watching him, staring with something close to awe reflected in his gaze.

Charles always meant to ask in those minutes what it was that had stopped them from doing this, and what had changed, but the sight of Erik's smile, soft and hesitant, like Charles was the best thing to ever happen to him, always derailed the thought. Instead Charles returned the smile and picked up the pace.

It was still the longest ten minutes of Charles' life.

They slowed to a stop outside Charles' building while Charles dug around for his keys. He found them, and was about to turn and offer Erik another smile when he found Erik staring at the building and frowning. Charles' heart sank.

"I know it's not the nicest of places, but it's really not too bad once you get inside," he said. He'd never felt this before. Growing up in the lap of luxury tended to make a person disdainful of displays of wealth. Or perhaps that was just him.

Erik shook his head. "Why are you living in student housing?" he asked, turning then to catch Charles' eye. He looked utterly confused, and more than a little conflicted. It was a familiar expression, one Charles had seen before.

Still, Charles supposed it was a fair question. "Honestly," he said, "it's mostly just laziness." He shrugged, hoping Erik might forgive him for it--more than willing to offer to pay for a hotel if Erik had a problem with the location.

Apparently, however, Charles' answer had been the exact right thing to say, because Erik laughed--actually laughed--shaking his head fondly before he stalked--oh, God, he stalked--towards Charles, hands coming up to catch Charles about the hips.

"You can understand why a man might be confused," he said, leaning in then to nip at Charles' lips--at least, that was likely his intention, but when he got there Charles surged forward, catching Erik's bottom lip between his teeth, sucking slightly until Erik melted-- _melted_ \--the kiss softening into something Charles had never once experienced.

Erik kissed Charles like he thought Charles was ludicrous and loved him anyway. Charles' heart beat fiercely in his chest, every cell alive with energy and want and need and _this man, this man_. When Erik pulled back, lips swollen, pupils blown, twin spots of colour on his cheek, Charles groaned and ducked his head.

"We probably need to get this inside, soon," he managed. When he glanced back up again, the smile that Erik was wearing was as nervous as it was eager. Charles reclaimed Erik's hand and dragged him inside.

Erik paused again once they were inside the door to Charles' actual apartment, standing frozen on the threshold as though on the verge of changing his mind.

"We can go elsewhere," Charles offered--quickly, far too quickly. This had never worried him before.

Erik merely shook his head. He met Charles' eye then, expression turning serious.

"Are you sure you're a professor?" he asked. Charles didn't miss the way he swallowed upon saying it. Still, Charles laughed.

"Fairly certain, yes. Why, did you think I was a student?"

He meant it as a joke--even laughed a little upon saying it--but the look that crossed Erik's face was unmistakable. Charles' eyes grew wide.

"Oh, God, you did. How did you think that? No, wait, better question; is that why we haven't done this yet?"

Because until this moment he still thought it was something he'd done or not done and the not knowing--the not being able to figure it out--was driving him crazy. To know that Erik was merely being honourable--admirable, even--was... Charles found himself smiling.

And now Erik looked more than a little distraught, so Charles closed the distance between them, reaching out to grab Erik by the waist with his uninjured hand. He pulled Erik towards him. He would have done anything in the world to remove that look from Erik's face, but part of him thrilled to learn that Erik had undoubtedly been agonizing over this--there was no mistaking that now.

"You were in my class," Erik said, as if that explained everything. He still looked hopelessly lost, but he let Charles reel him in; let his hands come up to wrap around Charles' shoulders.

"That's only because you stole all my students." When Erik frowned, Charles elaborated. "I had to cancel my Intro to Genetics course, because half my class dropped to sit in on your poetry course." He quirked a smile then, letting it grow more than a little suggestive.

To his surprise, Erik merely asked, "Is that where they all came from?" He chuckled then, like in hindsight the entire incident was comical--and Charles supposed it rather was.

"Can you blame them?" Charles asked, and because he could, he brought a hand to Erik's sternum and began tracing his fingers down. It was a shock when Erik immediately reached out to stop him.

"Anything but that," he said, squeezing Charles' hand before he released it. Charles hesitated, and then brought the hand to Erik's shoulder, tracing the line of his arm instead, watching Erik intently to ensure he had no objections.

He offered none, but his expression had grown serious again, the way he looked at Charles like nothing Charles had ever seen before. He'd seen lust--even love, of a sort--but this; this was worship, Charles fairly certain he was unworthy of the way this man looked at him. It was probably a good thing he was far too selfish a person to protest.

"You're wrong, you know," Erik said, bringing up a hand then to brush the backs of his fingers against Charles' cheek. "Anyone who would drop your class for mine is an idiot."

Charles swallowed, not entirely certain what to say to that. Apparently Erik didn't expect him to say anything, because his hand moved next to Charles' mouth, fingers tracing Charles' lips so that Charles couldn't have answered, even if he'd wanted to.

Erik stepped forward then, until he was crowded against Charles. He let his fingers dip beneath Charles' chin, tilting his head until he could fit their mouths together. This kiss was softer, more purposeful than the ones before; like Erik was seeking permission, reassurance. Charles let his lips part, which seemed to be enough to suit Erik's needs, because Erik surged into him then, kissing Charles with abandon, Charles left dizzy and light-headed under the onslaught.

When they parted, Erik's hands--shaking, oh, God, they were shaking--rested on the buttons of Charles' tux jacket. Erik sought Charles' gaze, asking silent permission, to which Charles could only nod.

"Why aren't you wearing a coat?" he scolded as he worked the line of buttons, Charles trembling beneath him, more aroused than he'd ever been. Later he'd remember that he'd forgotten his coat in the coat check--that he hadn't even noticed it missing on their jog to his apartment--but at the moment all Charles could do was smile sheepishly, like he would never forget his coat again if he thought it might make Erik happy.

Erik, who was wearing a coat--had been all night, even the first time Charles had seen him--looked entirely too overdressed for Charles' apartment, so as soon as Erik had finished with Charles' jacket--the fabric falling to pool on Charles' worn and stained carpet--Charles reached for Erik's zipper. It was a fumbling affair, using only his non-dominant hand, and halfway through his attempt Erik chuckled and reached up to help. They finally got the zipper down, and Erik shrugged the coat off, tossing it in the direction of Charles' chair/book depository. It too ended up on the floor.

"You can't imagine how much I..." Erik said then, staring at the line of buttons on Charles' shirt. Charles let out a little laugh even as he swayed a little closer, wanting to feel Erik's heat.

"Actually..." he said with a self-deprecating chuckle. Erik glanced up then, startled. He caught Charles' gaze.

Whatever he found there seemed to be exactly what he was searching for, because he smiled, soft and relieved. He brought his hands to the buttons of Charles' shirt and slowly began undoing them.

Charles had never been undressed before. It was an overwhelming experience that left him feeling more than a little on display, but when he tried to help, Erik caught his hand and said, "Let me," like Charles could ever deny Erik anything.

Charles nodded and let his hand drop back to his side.

The unbuttoning of his shirt was an agonizingly slow process. Erik seemed enraptured by it. He had to pause when he reached the part that was tucked into Charles' pants. Charles grew dizzy with the thought of Erik unfastening them, but instead Erik began systematically pulling Charles' shirt free, starting again on the buttons as soon as it was out. When he was done with the buttons, he reached for Charles' injured hand and brought it between them.

"How long..." he began, swallowing as though incapable of speaking.

"I get more x-rays on Thursday," Charles said. Erik nodded at that, running his thumb over the backs of Charles' knuckles before he reached for Charles' cufflinks.

He unfastened one, and then the other, and then pushed the shirt over Charles' shoulders, letting it slip over his arms to join his jacket on the floor. He couldn't seem to tear his eyes from Charles' chest.

"This might be a good time to move to the bed," Charles said, sensing that Erik could probably spend several hours just standing and looking--and while Charles appreciated being admired, he was also fast approaching a state of desperation he wasn't sure he was capable of surviving.

Erik glanced up at that, seemingly startled. For a moment Charles thought to panic--because wasn't that what they were doing?--but then Erik nodded, though he caught Charles' eye and said, "Only if you're sure," like he was somehow afraid he was pushing Charles too hard.

Charles almost laughed. Instead he swayed forward, placing his hands on Erik's chest, letting his good hand stroke across the pectoral muscle it found there.

"I think I can safely assure you that I am beyond positive," he said.

Erik grinned at that, a delighted smile that Charles wanted to spend the rest of his life trying to provoke. He stepped back then, reached for the hem of his turtleneck--God, could the man wear turtlenecks--and pulled it over his head. Charles caught a brief flash of abs--oh, God, those abs--before he was entirely distracted by Erik's chest.

In fact, Erik's chest was the reason Charles missed Erik unfastening his pants. It was only luck--or rather, Charles' desire to follow the curve of Erik's body down, perhaps take in those abs a second time, that made him realize Erik was now standing in his briefs, pants around his ankles as he tried to simultaneously remove them and his shoes.

Charles had never wanted to drop to his knees more.

The problem with sleeping with Erik, Charles now realized, was that Erik was entirely too attractive for Charles to be expected to maintain any level of higher brain function. Already he wanted to throw himself at Erik and rut against his leg. It took a considerable degree of effort to not do exactly that, to instead wait for Erik to sort out the pants-shoe business, and then place a hand in the centre of Erik's chest--and he would never get over the firmness of it--and push him towards the bed. To Charles' surprise--and delight--Erik went willingly.

He climbed backwards onto Charles' bed.

Charles took a few minutes to process that.

Erik was in his bed.

It took another few minutes for Charles's brain to catch up with the situation, but once it did he scrambled to get his own trousers off, clasp particularly tricky given that he only had one working hand. Erik seemed to sense what he was trying to do, because suddenly there were another set of hands helping him--and Charles would never, ever be able to compute Erik _undoing Charles' pants_ , so he gave up trying and simply let it happen.

He stumbled a little when they were off and he had to do his own pant-shoe battle, but eventually he managed, Erik chuckling a little as he pulled Charles down into the bed beside him.

Oh, God, Erik was in his bed.

"Is this okay?" Erik asked, running a hand across Charles' shoulder. It occurred to Charles then that Erik seemed more than a little concerned about consent.

The thought spiked something deeply uncomfortable in his stomach--something he wasn't sure if he wanted to approach just yet, so instead he said, "I absolutely want to have sex with you," and then added, "Provided you want to have sex with me."

Erik beamed at him. There was no other way to describe it. He nodded--somewhat vigorously Charles was delighted to note.

"Yeah, I definitely want that," he said, blushing slightly as he said it, and it wasn't until he spoke again that Charles understood why. "But condoms are a must." He ducked his head. "And it's been a really long time, so you'll have to be a little careful."

This last bit was said all in a rush, Erik practically whispering, like it pained him to admit as much. It took Charles a minute to work out what he was saying, and, oh. Oh. That hadn't occurred to Charles until now. He'd just assumed Erik was a top. He floundered briefly, because while he wasn't unfamiliar with topping--certainly he'd done it--it wasn't exactly something he did.

"Um..." There was really no other way to ask this. "Do you always..." Charles gestured.

Erik's eyes grew wide, as though he'd only just caught up with their conversation. Charles was painfully aware of how little space there was between them. Erik's chest was pressed against his own; their hips perfectly aligned so that Charles could feel the outline of Erik's erection nestled alongside his. Their knees brushed every time they shifted. Charles had never done this before. He'd never negotiated sex before--not the first time, anyway. It had always been a mad pulling off of clothes and then a rush towards the finish line, followed shortly by passing out or a shameful walk home.

It probably shouldn't have surprised him that in this, like in everything else, Erik was unique.

"I haven't," Erik admitted, "but I suppose I could."

He didn't exactly sound too confident about it. In fact, he sounded horrified by the prospect, and Charles wondered exactly who this ex of his was--the one he'd written about, the one Raven had told him about--that had obviously so thoroughly messed with Erik's sexuality.

For the first time in Charles' life, Charles wanted to kill someone.

Instead he said, "It doesn't matter," and pulled Erik to him, kissing Erik because if he didn't kiss Erik soon he was probably going to explode.

They could worry about the logistics of anal sex another time. Right now Charles just wanted Erik.

Erik seemed to approve of this plan, because he kissed Charles back like having spent the last ten minutes not kissing had been the most agonizing ten minutes of his life. Just having Erik against him was almost enough to send him over, Charles rocking their hips together, pressing into Erik even as Erik pressed into him, all of their earlier awkwardness vanishing as they set up a rhythm like that.

But Charles still wanted to suck him--had wanted to suck Erik pretty much from the minute he'd walked into Erik's classroom and saw him leaned against the podium and quoting Blake, like it was something Erik did all the time, over coffee or while taking out the trash.

He pulled back long enough to tell Erik as much, mumbling, "I want to suck you," into his mouth between open mouthed, wet kisses. God, Erik was easily the best kisser Charles had ever encountered.

Except, after he said it, Erik went very still, so Charles pulled back far enough to get his eyes open, taking in Erik's startled expression without fully comprehending what had caused it.

"You don't have to do that," Erik said in answer to a question Charles had apparently--not that he remembered--asked.

Charles frowned, needing a minute before he could piece together what Erik was saying. Once he did, he pulled back far enough to get up onto one elbow, leaning over Erik now like he intended to open a conversation.

Instead, he said, "I don't think a single day has gone by since we met that hasn't involved me fantasizing about sucking your cock. Why on earth would you think I considered it a chore?"

Erik seemed startled by that--he seemed startled by a lot of things, Charles was quickly learning. He sounded almost timid when he said, "You fantasize about sucking my cock?" like Charles was some kind of wonder--some miracle sent down from heaven above.

Charles grinned at him. "Pretty much constantly. May I?"

Erik, who looked decidedly flustered, gave a brief nod, which was all the encouragement Charles needed. He slid down the bed to position himself between Erik's legs, Erik once again going very still, like he was half afraid breathing would disrupt this thing between them.

Charles paused to admire the outline of Erik's cock, pressing obscenely against his briefs, before he unceremoniously shucked them over Erik's hips, then down his legs, tossing them off the end of the bed before he crawled back up to lay between Erik's legs.

Up close, Erik's cock was a thing of beauty. The man was endowed, but that wasn't what immediately drew Charles' attention. Erik's cock was a work of art, perfectly proportioned, beautifully even, its long length tapering only slightly before it flared out into a cut head that was stained purple with Erik's need. Charles gave himself half a second to appreciate it and then, because he tended to be a bit of a greedy bastard, and because he was fairly certain a direct assault would work best in this instance, he nuzzled against Erik's balls--oh, the scent of him--and then shifted up to immediately take Erik into his mouth. Erik gasped at the sensation, so Charles smiled, and then took the whole of his length down his throat, thankful then for having beaten has gag reflex into submission years ago.

Now Erik let out a hoarse shout that might have been a curse, or maybe an entreaty to God--though Charles rather fancied it was his name--his hips pistoning off the bed, his entire body going taut--well, tenser than it already was--as he succumbed to the sensation. Charles' smile grew as much as was possible around a mouthful of cock. He hollowed his cheeks. Erik outright whimpered.

He'd sucked enough cock in his day--and by that he meant a lot of cock; probably more than was healthy--so he had enough tricks up his sleeve that it was only a matter of minutes before Erik was practically sobbing, thrashing on the sheets and begging for something that even Charles suspected he didn't understand. What he wasn't expecting--what hadn't happened before--was for Erik's reaction to so thoroughly accelerate his own. Charles was leaking onto the sheets, even as he rubbed against them, wanting so desperately to touch, and yet half afraid he'd end up coming just from this alone.

It was an impossible thing to control, though, the sight of Erik beneath him--eyes screwed tight, hands fisted in Charles' covers, body arching off the bed, hips bucking against where Charles was now holding them against the mattress, bottom lip clenched between his teeth, and beads of sweat dotting his body--so arousing that in that instance Charles was fairly certain he could have easily fucked Erik and loved it.

Loved every second of it.

He almost pulled off to suggest as much, but Erik was so far gone--so lost to the haze of his pleasure--that it was all Charles could do to squeeze Erik's base as he pulled off, Erik groaning against the loss, but Charles was experienced with this--had it down to a science--so it was only a matter of seconds before he was into and out of his bedside drawer, condom wrapper opened--Erik had insisted--and condom rolled over Erik's cock. Not a half a minute later, Charles was swallowing him back down so that he could come in Charles' mouth.

Erik's shout was unlike anything Charles had ever heard.

He spent a few dizzying minutes after basking in the knowledge that he'd just sucked off Erik Lehnsherr. That he'd just made Erik Lehnsherr come. That Erik Lehnsherr was sprawled across his mattress, looking thoroughly debauched, mouth parted as he tried to suck in enough oxygen, skin flushed from the force of his orgasm, entire body lax in that way that only a body thoroughly wrung out could look.

Charles had never felt more powerful than he did in that moment.

And then Erik opened his eyes, and looked at him, like Charles was some kind of god, and Charles had to reassess every world view he'd ever had.

"You okay?" Charles asked, even though it was painfully obvious that Erik was--certainly if the dopey smile he was wearing was any indication.

"No one's ever done that for me," Erik said, all in a rush, like he was imparting a great secret.

He rather was.

Because okay. Charles had just given Erik Lehnsherr his first blow job. He found himself smiling stupidly.

Erik returned the smile, continuing to look dazed--and more than a little happy--for several minutes, until he caught sight of Charles' erection, straining against his underwear. Then his expression grew serious again. He licked his lips, nodding like he'd just given himself a pep talk.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows then, drawing attention to the condom he was still wearing. Charles chuckled--he'd defend to his death that it was a chuckle, even though, later, Erik would tell him it was a giggle--and reached for the box of tissue next to his alarm clock. He grabbed a handful and handed them to Erik, letting him dispose of the prophylactic. When Erik was done, he glanced back to Charles' cock.

"Would you like me to?" he said, gesturing. There was something in his hesitation--however determined he sounded--that startled Charles. He moved immediately to lie on the bed at Erik's side.

When Erik remained seated, Charles reached for him and drew him down.

"I'd like to kiss you some more, if that's okay," he said, because obviously having sex with Erik was like walking into a mind field, and until Charles had a map, he didn't exactly want to make any missteps.

It was obviously the wrong thing to say, because Erik tutted, shaking his head then like Charles was being ridiculous.

"I have sucked a cock before," he said. Charles smiled.

Okay, if that was the way he was going to be.

"I leak, so you'll probably want to start with a condom," Charles said, nodding to the drawer. Erik looked surprised, like he was expecting to have to argue his case, perhaps convince Charles to let Erik suck his cock--as if that would ever need to happen.

Erik got that determined look on his face again, so Charles sighed, feigning exasperation he didn't feel, and grabbed Erik's shoulder, toppling him off balance as he reached for the drawer, so that he landed on Charles instead--and Charles took a moment to appreciate being pinned to the bed by Erik's weight before he spoke.

"We're not keeping a tally sheet. This isn't tit for tat. I like sucking cock. If you don't, it's not something you need to do. I would be just as happy with your hand. But whatever it is you're going to do, please do it, because I've been about a half a second away from coming since we walked in the door."

For as much as Charles sometimes wished that his list of past sexual partners was shorter than it actually was--a good deal shorter would have been nice--at the very least his range of experiences meant that he was very good at telling his partners what he liked and what he wanted, but more than that, he knew how to be frank when it counted. Right now, it seemed to count.

Erik seemed to take Charles' words for a challenge, because he stayed where he was, surging into Charles to seal their lips together--oh, finally--kissing Charles like Charles had wanted him to do from the onset. What surprised Charles--delighted him, really--was that the hand that slipped into his underwear--that wrapped around Charles' cock--was strong and confident and not at all as uncertain as Charles was starting to assume Erik would always be.

As if sensing Charles' surprise, Erik smiled into the kiss. He pulled back slightly to catch Charles' eye--Charles couldn't have closed them even if someone had paid him to--asking, in a husky whisper, "Like this?"  
Charles nodded, even as Erik paused to tug Charles' underwear down so that the elastic was trapped beneath his balls, drawing them up in a way that made Charles' toes curl. Erik smirked, and then gathered some of Charles' precome into his hand and began lazily stroking Charles' cock.

Which was pretty much about the time that Charles gave up and came, making a sound that he would forever deny having made--a sound that surely no human had ever made--semen spilling between them, his entire world going white, Charles having half a second to feel embarrassed by how _quickly_ it had happened before Erik moaned-- _moaned_ \--and started kissing him again.

Were they perhaps ten years younger--ironically, if they were still students--he suspected Erik would have been hard again.

As it was he still rutting against Charles' leg, kissing him with abandon even as he ran his hand through the mess Charles had made of their stomachs. He seemed determined to trace patterns into it, as though wanting tactile proof that it had happened. When he eventually broke the kiss and pulled back, he was wearing that same dopey smile from before.

Charles was pretty sure his matched.

"Now what?" Erik asked, like Charles might just have all the answers in the universe.

Charles considered.

"Order food and then have another go?" he suggested.

[Erik's answering grin was all teeth.](http://www.nekosmuse.com/teeth.gif)


	17. Chapter 17

Erik opened his eyes to find blue irises--startlingly blue irises--staring intently at him. Erik blinked, even as the pair of blue eyes glanced away, Charles' face coming into focus then. He'd ducked his head and was blushing, somewhat furiously Erik couldn't help but note.

Without really meaning to--though what other response could he give--a smile crept onto Erik's face. When Charles caught sight of it he relaxed, sinking into the mattress at Erik's side--and try as he might, Erik couldn't quite believe he was in Charles' bed. Charles offered Erik a sheepish smile.

"I don't usually do that," he said. It took Erik a minute to realize he meant the staring. Erik cleared his throat.

"I don't mind," he said, because Charles could look at him forever--he wished Charles would never look away--if it meant he could have Charles forever.

It was still a little surreal knowing he could have Charles at all.

"Oh," Charles said, sounding surprised, but also pleased, like no one had ever wanted Charles' attention before. Erik couldn't imagine such a thing. It was painfully obvious that everyone before him was an idiot.

Charles was looking at him again, though now his expression was searching, as though he wasn't quite certain how to proceed. It was a strange look after last night, this uncertain hesitance. Certainly Erik had seen it before, but not last night.

Erik's body stilled hummed pleasantly to think about the things they'd done to each other. Things no one had done to him before.

Charles brought up a hand--the one without the splint, and guilt still coiled in Erik's chest to think of it; he had never wanted to hurt Charles--and ran it through his hair. It was an endearingly awkward gesture, nervous fidgeting like Charles wasn't quite sure what to do with his energy. It wasn't the first time Erik had noticed it; Charles tried so hard to contain himself to a single space, and yet anyone with half a brain could see that he was meant to occupy entire rooms. The effort left him bleeding energy, Charles shifting and fidgeting in way that Erik had only ever seen in Raven before meeting him.

And, oh, shit, Raven.

Erik's smile fell. He barely registered the confused expression that settled over Charles' face before he was scrambling from the bed and hunting for his clothes. He found his pants in a tangle on the floor, but his Blackberry wasn't in them, so he began searching for his coat, finding it pooled next to an overstuffed chair that was laden with books--Erik startled to find several poetry texts in the pile, two of which contained his own works.

It only distracted him for a moment, though, and then he was pulling his Blackberry from his pocket and dialing Raven's number, cursing himself for ten times an idiot for having not thought to contact her sooner.

He had never spent the night away without telling her. Never. And given the strain between them and her concern over Erik's recent mood, he suspected having not done so might have been a very bad decision.

She answered after three rings, voice thick with sleep--a good sign, Erik thought, because at least she was sleeping.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm so sorry. I'm fine. I'm fine. Are you okay?" He sounded desperate, he knew--an odd counterpoint to the languor he'd felt upon waking.

It was then that he became aware of Charles on the bed, propped up on one elbow, watching him. He looked confused, though there was an edge of panic simmering beneath the surface that Erik couldn't quite comprehend. Surely Charles hadn't thought he was going to leave, had he?

"Erik?" Raven said, distracting him from the thought. She sounded like she wasn't quite processing thought this early in the morning--and it was early he realized; far too early for Raven.

"Are you all right?" he asked, as slowly and evenly as he could. Raven grunted.

Across the room, Charles relaxed a little. He gave Erik an understanding smile, and then slipped from the bed and padded into the bathroom. Erik was so distracted by the sight of Charles' retreating backside that he missed what Raven had said.

"Sorry, what?" he asked, swallowing heavily, acutely aware that he was standing in the middle of Charles' apartment, without a stitch of clothes, cradling his phone to his ear. He turned towards the windows, relief filling him when he found the shades drawn.

"I said relax. Charles texted me," she said, and Erik spun then, staring at the closed bathroom door like it could answer in Charles' place.

"He did?" he asked, wondering when that had happened. Had it been when he'd gone to use the washroom, or when Charles had popped downstairs to pick up their delivery? Or maybe he'd done so after Erik had fallen asleep, exhausted and giddy with having just reciprocated--three hours too late--Charles' blow job.

Unbidden the thought of Charles beneath him--thrashing and moaning, running careful fingers through Erik's hair--came to him. It took considerable effort to shake the image off and focus on his conversation with Raven.

"Wait, are you still at his place?" Raven was asking, and when Erik didn't answer--distracted again by Charles, who had just poked his head out the door--she added, "and if you are, why the hell are you wasting time talking to me?"

That was a very good question. Without saying goodbye, Erik ended the call and then tossed his phone somewhere in the direction of his jacket. It hit the floor with a rather alarming thud. Erik ignored it. He smiled sheepishly at Charles instead.

"Sorry," he said, and then, because he hoped it might help, added, "I don't usually do that."

Charles' smile widened. He stepped fully out of the bathroom, Erik disappointed to see that he was now wearing a pair of boxer briefs.

"She texted last night to ask if I'd seen you, so I told her you were spending the night. I hope that's all right," Charles said.

It was all right--more than all right--but Erik was too distracted by the line of Charles' hip to do anything other than step forward and reach towards it. Charles stilled as soon as Erik's fingers brushed his side, Erik tracing the ink that still marred Charles' perfect skin.

"Did you read it?" he asked, because Charles had wanted to know what it had said after Erik had wrote it, but twist as he might, Charles hadn't been able to get a good look, and Erik, still overcome by everything that had happened, still a little blindsided by the fact that he'd, on impulse, taken a pen and written verse on Charles' hip, hadn't been able to tell him.

Charles, who seemed a little flustered now that Erik was so close--and Erik would never get tired of that--ducked his head.

"I read it last night," he admitted, though it couldn't have been easy, Erik knew.

"I should have written it backwards," Erik admitted. He'd written it for Charles. It would have made sense to write it so that Charles could read it, even if he'd needed a mirror.

Erik let his finger trace the line of words. It had amused him last night, high on Charles, to write against the curve of Charles' body. A new medium he'd called it, and Charles had laughed and told him he was wonderful and after, when the ink had dried--[Erik had made Charles sit perfectly still until it had](http://palalife.tumblr.com/post/13308185615/the-ideal-grace-by-nekomuse-university-au-erik)\--they'd kissed, the taste of tzatziki on their tongues.

Erik tugged on the line of Charles' boxers until the whole of the [poem](http://archiveofourown.org/works/273040/chapters/449048) was revealed, and found himself reading out loud.

_single-celled  
evolution  
brought you  
to me._

_genetic mutation  
made blue eyes_

_who took  
my heart  
my mind  
my soul._

_proud of all  
that made you._

_made me.  
made us._

Charles, who had gone perfectly still, trembled only slight when Erik was done. Erik flushing then, suddenly embarrassed, but Charles only turned towards him, pressed up onto his toes and kissed Erik with such soft tenderness that Erik was half afraid to reciprocate lest his awkwardness shatter the moment.

The thought lasted only until he registered that Charles had brushed his teeth--something Erik hadn't had a chance to do, and undoubtedly wouldn't unless Charles had a spare toothbrush. He pulled back and feigned a glare.

"That's cheating, you know," he said, but Charles only quirked a smile at him, grabbed his hand, and tugged him towards the bed.

Erik went willingly.

Later, and Erik probably needed to rethink his enthusiasm, because he wasn't used to this, the result of which was that he was wrung out and exhausted and it was only 10am, Charles lay nestled at his side, splinted hand resting on Erik's chest, the fingers that moved shifting against Erik's heart. It still amazed him that he was here--that Charles was here; that Charles looked like he didn't want to be anywhere else.

"I need to ask you something," Erik said, because it had fluttered on the outskirts of their night, and now their morning, and while he was terrified to ask--terrified to know--he needed to know, if only so that he could ensure Charles was protected. He would die before he let anything happen to Charles.

Charles, perhaps sensing the shift in Erik's mood--it had been so light before now--pushed up so that he was resting on an elbow. He caught Erik's eye.

"I need to know what you promised Shaw to get him to agree to an apology," Erik said. He couldn't help the way his voice twisted on Shaw's name. For as much as he'd vanquished the man last night, Erik was still coloured through with his taint.

Charles was looking at him now, expression scrutinizing, as though he was on the verge of figuring out exactly who Shaw was and exactly what he'd done. Erik held his breath, dreading the moment, because undoubtedly Charles would react with revulsion, and then all of this would have been for not.

"Is..." Charles paused, shaking his head. "Erik, is Shaw your ex?" he asked. He sounded only concerned.

The words were probably unnecessary--Erik's tension undoubtedly told the whole story--but Erik still forced himself to say, "Yes," like he wanted Charles to know; like maybe if Charles knew he could reach inside and wipe Erik clean.

"I see," Charles said, and he sounded angry--so very angry. Erik braced himself, even as his arm inadvertently tightened around Charles' waist, wanting to hold Charles to him for as long as he was able.

But instead of pulling away, Charles settled back against him, nuzzling his nose into the underside of Erik's chin.

"I'm glad you punched that son of a bitch in the face, and I'm sorry I made you apologize," he said, which was so far removed from what Erik was expecting that he pulled back, startled. "Also, I didn't promise him anything. I threatened him."

Charles glanced up at him then and Erik was surprised to see a sly smile creeping onto his face.

There were a million things he wanted to ask, but he settled on, "You threatened him?" because people didn't just threaten Sebastian Shaw--well, technically he had, but it was probably going to backfire on him and he'd end up out of a job and begging Charles to come live with him in Germany.

Charles blushed then, looking more than a little sheepish. He coughed.

"I may have been bluffing a little." When Erik didn't immediately grasp his meaning, Charles elaborated. "In the UK, the Poet Laureate is appointed by the Queen, on the recommendation of the Prime Minister, but the process is a little more complicated than that. There's actually a selection committee, but their job isn't just selecting the Poet Laureate; they also monitor them to ensure they continue to best represent England's interests.

"Not that it's anyone's been stripped of Poet Laureate status before--at least, certainly not in recent years--but it could happen."

Erik wasn't entire sure what this had to do with Charles. He said as much.

"Oh," Charles said, like it hadn't occurred to him before now. He flushed a brilliant shade of scarlet. "My uncle is the chairman of that selection committee."

He said it like it had pained him to do so, and Erik flashed back then to the comment Scott Summers had made, the one about Xavier family money. Dear God, he realized; if Charles' relatives were advising England's Queen, what did that make Charles?

"Not that I even really know him. I've only met him a handful of times, and while I'm sure he would be more than happy to help me out, he's not going to strip Shaw of his title just because I ask." He laughed then, a little self-deprecatingly, like the thought was just plain ludicrous.

Erik still didn't know what to say to that, so he said the first thing that came into his head. "I didn't apologize."

Charles glanced up at that, seeming somewhat startled.

"I think I might be blackmailing him now," Erik said with a shrug.

Charles, whose eyes had grown wide, brought a hand to his mouth, even as he let out a huff of a laugh. His hand didn't seem to be enough to contain it, though, because he chuckled again, making the most adorable snorting sound in the process. Against his will, Erik felt a grin spreading across his face. Charles gave him a looking, silently beseeching him not to start. Erik coughed.

"Oh my God," Charles said, and that was it, they both fell over, dissolving first into giggles, then outright hysterics.

Erik couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard, or so long. Charles had tears leaking from his eyes. Every time he thought he'd got himself under control, Charles would look at him, and then it would start all over, Erik laughing until he physically hurt from laughing.

"Oh, God, we're going to end up in jail," Charles said at one point, and when Erik replied, "Do you think they'll let us share a cell," Charles hiccuped, and that set Erik off all over again.

In the whole of his life, he had never once laughed over anything concerning Sebastian Shaw. Clearly Charles was otherworldly. There was really no other explanation.

There was, however, a limit to how much laughter the human body was capable of, because after several starts and stops, they eventually got themselves under control, Erik's stomach tense from the effort. Charles' expression grew contemplative.

"Feel like breakfast?" he asked, still grinning.

Erik's smile widened. He nodded his agreement, which seemed to be enough for Charles, who climbed from the bed, heedless of his nakedness, and meandered into the kitchen.

"I don't have much, but as long as you've no objection to Fruit Loops, I think we can manage," Charles said, pulling a box from the counter. It was quite possibly the most ridiculous thing Erik had ever seen, so he chuckled--as much as it physically pained him to do so. It occurred to him, as he watched Charles retrieving a couple of chipped bowls, that there was a good possibility this was actually going to work.

Certainly Erik was willing to put in the effort.

~*~

_Raven Interlude_

Raven smiled as she re-read the [text on her phone](http://www.nekosmuse.com/tiger.jpg). She had no idea what had happened--what had pushed Erik over the edge--but he'd sounded happy when he'd called--beneath his worry and his panic, he'd sounded happy. Raven was in a particularly good mood as she set her phone down on her nightstand and crawled out of bed.

The nice thing about having the apartment to herself, Raven thought as she padded into the kitchen, was how ridiculously easy it was to sleep in when Erik wasn't banging around making an incredible amount of noise--Erik would protest that he was quiet as a mouse, she was sure, but she knew better. It was well past noon and aside from Erik's early morning phone call, nothing had disturbed her slumber.

She was in the process of fixing a bowl of muesli when she heard the tell-tale jingle of Erik's keys. She abandoned her quest for food in favour of meeting him at the door. Erik glanced up--wearing yesterday's clothes she noted--seeming surprised to find her there. Raven offered a grin.

"So..." she began, but in place of embarrassment, or even the blush she was expecting, Erik merely rolled his eyes and headed into the kitchen.

He set about making coffee.

"You're not going to tell me?" she pressed.

Erik chuckled. "Fine, yes, okay. Except it's not what you think because we got it wrong."

Raven wasn't quite sure what to make of that. She frowned. "Wrong?"

Erik turned to face her, leaning against the counter as he did. He was smiling. She caught a brief hint of what could only be a hickey on the juncture between his jaw and his neck--his turtleneck did nothing to cover it--and was about to point it out when Erik answered.

"Charles is a professor."

Raven blinked.

Erik smile had grown particularly smug, and he was looking at Raven like he'd somehow just won a bet. Raven tried to process what she'd just heard.

"A professor?"

"Yes, a professor, not a student."

"But that means..." Raven said.

Erik's grin widened. "Yes, yes it does," he said, which seemed to be about all he was willing to say on the subject, because he started whistling, turning to fetch a pair of mugs from the cupboard.

~*~

Epilogue:

_October 21, 2012_

Charles woke to an empty bed, which was hardly unusual--Erik was an even earlier riser than he, and he liked to fit in his runs before breakfast--but Charles was rather hoping today might have started a little differently.

He scolded himself for the thought, because it wasn't like they'd even discussed this, so Erik probably had no idea, and what right did Charles have to expect anything from him?

 _Every right_ , a voice in the back of his head said--one that sounded suspiciously like Raven, who'd somehow managed to appoint herself Charles' unlicensed, untrained, and mostly unwanted psychiatrist. There were days when Charles honestly had no idea why he paid to see an actual psychiatrist. It was probably Charles fault for spending so much time talking to her about... well, the stuff no one else would ever talk with him about.

He considered then that he should have brought the topic up with Raven, because she would have undoubtedly talked with her brother, and then he would have known and Charles wouldn't be in the middle of freaking out over a stupid date on the calendar, like today meant anything other than another day in a string of very, very good days.

He really was the greediest bastard he knew.

"Just give him the card and don't expect anything," Charles said to the empty room, hoisting himself out of bed and retrieving Erik's card from where Charles had hidden it in the bottom drawer of his dresser--mostly cleaned out now, but Charles still kept a handful of things in there, like the cue-cards from Erik's Romantic Poetry class, and the ticket stubs from the first movie Erik had ever taken him to, and the receipt from their first official dinner, and a poster from the shark exhibit where Erik had pulled him into a dark alcove and kissed him until his toes had curled.

Erik's binder of poetry, along with Charles' binder of news clippings about his father, now sat on the bookshelf in their shared study.

He smiled fondly at the cast iron mouse--rat, Erik had called it, a lab rat, though Charles thought it far too cute to be a rat--paperweight that Erik had bought him for his office and that Charles had never been able to remove from the house on the off chance that it get lost and then he'd forever be missing the second present--the journal was the first and that was in there too--that Erik had ever bought him.

He grabbed the powder blue envelope lying next to it, tucked it into his bathrobe pocket and sauntered out into the hall.

Raven's door was still closed--it still astounded him how late she slept, though he honestly had no idea if she was even home, Raven spending as many nights here as she did at Azazel's--so Charles tiptoed past, heading downstairs to the kitchen with the intent of making coffee. It was an unexpected surprise to find Erik standing in the living room, hovering over a box that occupied pretty much the entire coffee table.

"I thought you were running," Charles said, crossing the room until he was standing directly in front of Erik. Erik smiled broadly at him even as he swooped down to meet Charles half way for a kiss.

"I thought I'd take the morning off," he said as he pulled back, still looking at Charles like Charles was his most precious possession. Charles would never get tired of the way Erik looked at him.

Charles let that show in his smile, which only served to soften Erik's expression--which was already impossibly soft.

"Besides," Erik said, "I thought you might want to open your anniversary present."

He looked nervous as he said it, but Charles was too busy fighting the swell of emotion the word anniversary had brought to offer reassurances.

"You remembered," he said, because every time he thought he couldn't love this man more, Erik would go and do something so utterly wonderful--so absolutely perfect--that Charles would fall in love all over again.

Erik gave him a little frown. "Of course I remembered. Why wouldn't I remember?" he asked, but in lieu of an answer, Charles could only shake his head.

He reached into his pocket and drew out his card.

"I only got you a card," he said, feeling sheepish then, though he suspected Erik would appreciate what it contained.

Erik smiled broadly, a delighted grin that took over his whole face. He plucked the card from Charles' outstretched hand, slipped a thumb beneath the seal and carefully pulled the envelope open. Charles bit his tongue as he watched Erik pull out the card, stomach twisting nervously as Erik read it. When he had finished, he glanced up, startled.

"I thought you didn't write poetry," he said, staring at Charles like Charles had once again done something miraculous. It was a look Charles was only now getting used to seeing.

"As you can probably see, I don't," Charles said, letting out a laugh even as Erik shook his head.

"This is good, Charles." He brought his hand to Charles' cheek then, stroking his thumb across Charles' cheekbone. Charles could tell by the way his gaze kept dropping to Charles' lips that Erik intended to kiss him, but Charles also knew that that path would only lead them back to bed, and Erik had said something about a present, so Charles pulled back--just enough to remind Erik of the here and now.

Erik shook himself, and the reached for Charles' hand, dragging him around to the sofa so that they could sit, facing the coffee table and Erik's mysterious box.

"That's my present?" Charles asked, because it was rather large.

Erik laughed. "Kind of," he said, gesturing Charles towards the box-cutter Erik had obviously gotten out for exactly this occasion. Charles took it in hand and turned his attention to the box.

It was just an ordinary cardboard box, sealed with packing tape, a couple of _this side ups_ written on the side. There was a square of torn tape where someone had obviously removed the shipping information. Charles threaded out the cutter the moved towards the box.

"Carefully," Erik said when he got there. Charles worried then that Erik had had some sort of animal delivered--but there were no air holes and Charles was fairly certain there was no one in the house particularly interested in caring for a pet--so he put the thought aside.

He took his time breaking through the packing tape, keeping the cutter from dipping into the box as best he could. When he was done, he retracted the blade and set it back down on the coffee table.

He glanced at Erik, who was looking more and more nervous as time went by. Charles took pity on him and opened the box, finding, to his surprise, dozens of wrapped books, all exactly the same shape and size. Charles grabbed one off the top of the pile and tore off its protective sleeve.

[He glanced at its cover.](http://www.nekosmuse.com/cc1.html)

Charles blinked several times before what he was seeing began to make any sense. Erik was hovering next to him, so Charles shot him a glance, eyes wide, even as he felt his bottom lip begin to tremble.

"Was I being presumptuous?" Erik asked. He looked terrified now. Charles shook his head.

"You... You named the collection for me," he finally managed, overwhelmed by the very idea.

It had been hard enough processing that Erik had intended to publish the poetry he'd written for Charles in a collection. The thought had made dizzy--the whole world seeing and knowing everything Erik had ever felt for him. He'd floated high on that for weeks.

To hold that collection in his hand now, his name staring up at him from the cover-- _The Charles Collection_ \--like Charles was somehow worthy of this honour.

He glanced again to Erik, the sight blurry, and it was some time before Charles registered that that was because his eyes were watering.

"Oh, Erik," he said, flinging himself at Erik then, laughing into Erik's chest--and he was laughing, not sobbing he told himself--even as he clutched Erik's book in his arms.

"I'm sorry," Erik said, shushing him, like Charles' display was anything other than a man overjoyed at being in love. Charles drew back smiling and wiped at his eyes.

"You ridiculous, wonderful man," he said. "Every time I think it impossible to love you more, you go and prove me wrong."

Erik smiled at that, like Charles had just handed him the world. His own eyes grew misty, though only for a moment, Erik blinking rapidly until Charles was half convinced he'd imaged the sight.

This time when Erik leaned towards him, Charles surged forward to meet him half way.

Which is exactly where Raven found them, half sprawled across the couch, tongues buried in each other's mouths, Charles still sobbing--somewhat uncontrollably now, but he could hardly be blamed for that--Erik murmuring soothing sounding German things into his mouth.

"Oi!" Raven said, startling them both. "We have a rule about this sort of thing," she said, but when Charles glanced over she was smiling. Azazel, who was standing at her shoulder in a pair of red pajamas, smirked. They'd probably both known about the title, the bastards.

"Sorry," Erik immediately said, drawing back so that they were sitting once again, side by side, Charles still clutching Erik's book to his chest. He turned to Charles then. "I'm thinking we should probably retire to the bedroom before you read the dedication."

Charles mouth fell open, even as his eyes grew wide.

"Dedication?" he asked. Erik nodded, a little solemnly, but there was an edge of a grin dancing in his eyes.

Charles didn't hesitate. He bolted off the couch, vaulting over the coffee table--box and all--in his quest to reach the stairs. He heard Erik's amused chuckle as Erik followed behind.

That last thing he heard, as he ducked into their bedroom, was Raven shouting, "For God's sake, keep it down, some of us are trying to eat!"

Not exactly an easy task when faced with an enthusiastic Erik, but Charles was up for the challenge. First, he had a dedication to read.

_My love  
My light  
My Charles  
Thank you._

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out poet!Erik and professor!Charles on the little screen. Lady_ares has made a fanvid inspired by An Ideal Grace and its sequel, Love's Own Crown. You can view it here:
> 
> <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z1Z8smGWXU4>

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [214782](https://archiveofourown.org/works/294221) by [MsLanna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsLanna/pseuds/MsLanna)
  * [Ideal Grace: First Class](https://archiveofourown.org/works/313579) by [verilyvexed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verilyvexed/pseuds/verilyvexed)




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